The Day The Music Died sm-1

by Ed Gorman

  She said, “I really hurt him.”

  “I guess you probably did.”

  “And maybe I love him.”

  “Maybe you do.”

  For the first time since we’d started walking, she looked at me. “I don’t think he ever got drunk before.”

  “He isn’t any better at it than I am.”

  “No, you’re the worst, McCain.”

  “Thanks.”

  We walked some more. “Maybe I’m so used to thinking that I’m in love with you-well, maybe I’m not anymore and I don’t even realize it.” She sounded as if she was trying to solve a particularly difficult math problem. “On the other hand, maybe that’s true for you, too.”

  “Me?”

  “Uh-huh. With Pamela.”

  “Oh.”

  “That you don’t really love her anymore, you just think you do.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Oh, hell, McCain, I just never thought it’d be this hard when we were growing up. When you’re a little kid, it looks like adults know everything.”

  “Yeah.”

  We were on a block of taverns now. Every open door treated us to a different form of music-country-western, rock and roll, pop. You could smell beer and smoke. It was payday money being spent on Friday nights. And spending payday money meant not buying groceries and not buying shoes for the kids and breaking your promise again and again to your wife. You work as a public defender for a year, as I did, you hear about payday money a lot.

  “I’m going to marry him, McCain.”

  “I just heard him tell you he never wanted to see you again.”

  “He’s just drunk and hurt.”

  “Yeah, I s’pose.”

  “How’s that going to make you feel? If I tell him I’m going to marry him?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Will you try and stop me?”

  “No.”

  “That’s what I figured you’d say.”

  “Then you’re going to do it?”

  “Yeah,” she said. “I guess I am.”

  And then she broke away, running down a dark street, her breath plumes of silver, her near-frail body disappearing in the gathering shadows on the dark side of the streetlight.

  “Hey, wait up, Mary.”

  “Just go to hell, McCain. Just go straight to hell.”

  And then I couldn’t see her anymore, it was almost eerie the way she vanished, I couldn’t see her or hear her, she was just gone.

  I found a phone booth and got a long-. tance operator. It got complicated. I didn’t know the number so she first had to call information. By the time we made a connection, my nose was frozen and I really had to piss.

  “I’ll be damned,” a smooth whiskey-voiced man said. He was my age, but sounded ten years older and twenty years smarter.

  His name was Wyatt Cooper and we’d graduated law school together. He was a Republican, but I liked him anyway.

  “You got a few minutes to talk?” We hadn’t spoken in six months but the one thing I liked about Wyatt was you could count on him when you were in a spot.

  “Well, I’ve got a friend here. But I suppose she could spare me for a few minutes.”

  “I appreciate it, Wyatt.”

  “You think you can keep your hands to yourself for a few minutes, darlin’?” he said.

  A female voice giggled in the background and said, “I’ll try real hard.”

  We spent a few minutes talking about the careers of some of our friends who’d journeyed to Chicago and Washington and New York. One of our old cronies had gotten a very good job in Ike’s justice department. He was already working for Nixon’s election campaign.

  “I’m worried is what I am.”

  “About what?”

  I hesitated. “I know somebody who needs a little illegal medical help.”

  “You could always get married. I’m thinking of that, myself.” I heard the female voice coo in the background.

  “I’m not involved. Not directly, I mean.”

  “McCain, the white knight.”

  “It’s my sister.”

  “Oh, shit, man, I shouldn’t have made a joke.”

  “It’s all right. What I want to know is can you help?”

  “Just a sec.” He cupped the phone. They talked for several minutes behind his hand. “How far along is she?”

  “A month.”

  He repeated: “A month.” Then he cupped the phone again. They talked some more.

  “My friend Sue here knows a doctor,” he said.

  “A real one?”

  “A real one. He’s a staffer at one of the local hospitals here. Could you get her over to Des Moines?”

  “Sure.”

  “Sue’s a nurse. She knows this doc’ll help out once in a while if the girl isn’t too far gone and if he knows all the people involved.

  He doesn’t want to get his ass in a sling, obviously.”

  “Is she going to see him anytime soon?”

  “Tomorrow morning. They both drew Saturday.

  She can talk to him then.”

  “You know what it’s like otherwise, without a real sawbones.”

  “No shit. Girl around here had her friend try it with some kind of automobile suction device. Killed her.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of. She feels guilty about it and wants to handle it fast before my folks find out. So she might try something stupid.”

  “I think Sue can have an answer for you sometime tomorrow afternoon.”

  “That’d be great.”

  “You still got the same phone number?”

  “Yeah. But it’d probably be easier if I called you.”

  “Fine. Try me around two, three in the afternoon.”

  “I really appreciate this, Wyatt.”

  “No sweat. I just hope we can help you out.”

  Now I needed to find Ruthie. Her friend Gloria drove a new yellow Vw bug that she’d received for her sixteenth birthday from her godfather. I swung by her folks’ home. The bug wasn’t there. I then began a systematic check of the places where the teenagers hung out. I even drove out to Howard Johnson’s again. I spent forty-five minutes on my search and had just about given up when I saw a yellow bug swinging out of the drive of a pizza place out on the south highway.

  I honked the horn. Gloria recognized me. I waved and signaled for her to pull over to the curb.

  As I approached the car, I could see that Gloria was alone. Would she have any idea where Ruthie was? I felt good about my call to Wyatt. I should have phoned him as soon as I found out Ruthie was pregnant.

  Gloria rolled down the Vw window and turned down a Frankie Avalon song on the radio.

  “Hi,” she said. She had a small, freckled face with a slight overbite and a rather pointed chin. She wore a thin yellow parka that almost matched the color of her bug, which I suppose was the idea.

  “Hi. I’m looking for Ruthie. Have you seen her?”

  I could have won a few million from Gloria in a poker game. Though her lips were shaping themselves into a lie, her eyes glanced guiltily away. “Uh, uh-uh.”

  “Have you heard from her, then?”

  “No, I haven’t heard from her, either.”

  “That’s funny.”

  “What is?”

  “My mother’s under the impression she’s staying all night at your place.”

  “Gee, that is funny.”

  I said, “Why don’t you turn your engine off?”

  For the first time, she showed a little bit of fear.

  “Why?”

  “Because I don’t want you to leave until you tell me the truth.”

  She shifted into first and said, “I’d better be going now.”

  I reached in and grabbed the steering wheel.

  “Damn it, Gloria, you remember the girl they found last night? The dead one who’d had the abortion?”

  She sank back in the seat.

  “Did you hear what I said, Gloria?”


  “Yes, I heard.”

  “You know what’s going on with Ruthie, right?”

  She took a moment but finally, she nodded.

  “Where is she, Gloria?”

  She looked up at me. “I don’t know.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “I really don’t. She didn’t tell me.

  She just asked me to cover for her, you know, with your mom, in case she asked if Ruthie was staying at my house tonight.”

  “Gloria, if she goes to some quack who doesn’t know what he’s doing-”

  “Honest to God, she didn’t tell me. She just said she’d figured out a way to take care of it. Honest. That’s all she said.”

  I believed her. Her face had shifted from guilt to exasperation. Now she was telling me the truth and I was acting as if I didn’t believe her.

  “Do you ever hear of anybody around here who does these operations?” I said.

  “You mean like doctors?”

  “Doctors or anybody. A nurse, maybe.”

  “Uh-uh. Most girls go out of state.

  There’s a place in Kansas City where my sister went.”

  I should’ve called Des Moines sooner. I could have stopped this from happening tonight.

  “If you see her or hear from her-”

  “I’ll tell her to call you. I really will.

  But right now I’m kind of freezing my butt off.

  These heaters-”

  “That’s all right. Thanks for talking.”

  “She’ll be all right. I’m sure she will.”

  “I hope you’re right, Gloria.”

  The yellow bug headed up to the corner and then turned right when it got a green arrow on the traffic signal. Mist and fog were setting in.

  You get a lot of both in the valley. I wondered about my little sister. I should have done so much better protecting her.

  I walked back to the phone booth and called Judge Whitney. The brandy was flowing.

  I could hear it in her voice.

  “I hope you’ve called to tell me that you’ve found the real killer, McCain.”

  “Not yet.” But I did tell her about my day and some of the strange things that happened.

  “Do you think the colored man could have killed Susan, McCain?”

  “Possibly.”

  “Find out why he and Kenny had a falling-out.

  There might be something in that.” She sounded as if she’d just had the most brilliant deductive thought in the world. But I’d been wondering that all day long.

  “There’s also the fact,” I said, “that Renauld was in med school. He might be our man.”

  “The Leopold Bloom’s guy?”

  “Yes.”

  “I wouldn’t think he’d have the guts. All the blood. He’d probably say eek.”

  The brandy was flowing indeed. “What’s the music playing?” I said.

  “You really don’t know?”

  I let her feel superior as all hell.

  “I really don’t know.”

  “Why, it’s Chopin, of course. I’m very surprised you don’t know.”

  “That question wasn’t on my exam when I got my private investigator’s license.”

  “But back to the case. You know who I’ve also been thinking about?”

  “Who?” I said.

  “Bob Frazier.”

  “So have I.”

  “Really?”

  “Between his temper and his pride,” I said, “I could see him going out there and killing Susan in a rage. She’d certainly humiliated him enough times in the past couple of years. And Kenny had humiliated him for years. Maybe he just couldn’t handle it anymore.”

  “But then why would Kenny kill himself?”

  “Maybe it was the same with Kenny,” I said.

  “In fact, I’m almost sure it was. I was there when he did it, don’t forget. He was a very weary and very sad guy. I sensed that he was at the end of things. A pretty good number of alcoholics kill themselves when they feel they’re at the end.”

  “I’m sure I wouldn’t know,” she said imperiously. Then, “Where are you now, McCain?”

  That’s when I heard the sirens. Two, maybe three squad cars. That was a lot, even for a Friday night. Once in a while you got that many headed to a single scene if it was a bad accident out on some lonely road. But generally, given the fact that only four cars worked on weekend nights, one car covered most incidents.

  “McCain?”

  “I’m here.”

  “Are those sirens?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Any idea what’s going on?”

  “No. But there’s a Dx service station that has a police band radio. I’ll head over there.”

  “If it’s anything important, you be sure to call me.”

  “I will.”

  “I still can’t believe you didn’t know that was Chopin.”

  The Dx station had glossy promo pictures of Buddy Holly all over the front window. There was going to be a Buddy-a-thon on a local radio station Sunday afternoon.

  The place was lit up but I didn’t see anybody working. I bought a nickel Coke and some peanuts. I vaguely remembered from health class that peanuts were good energy food. The toilet flushed and the kid came out. He’d apparently been in there dipping his head in an oil c. His long, dark hair glistened with grease.

  He wore greasy coveralls with the collar turned up. Way up. He looked like Batman.

  “Hey,” he said.

  “Hey.”

  “You want some gas, daddy?”

  Since I needed a favor from him, I decided not to call him “sonny.”

  “I need your police radio.”

  “You’re that lawyer that works for the judge, right?”

  “Right.”

  “She yanked my license last year for six months. The bitch.”

  “You were innocent, of course.”

  “I accidentally bumped this old lady when she was crossing the street. I guess it sort of knocked her down.”

  “Well, the judge can be unreasonable sometimes, no doubt about it.”

  “You know the funny thing?”

  “What?”

  “She’s actually a good-lookin’ gal.”

  “The judge?”

  “Sure. For an old broad, I mean.”

  He winked. “Maybe if I woulda asked her out, she wouldn’ta yanked my license.”

  He should have pleaded diminished capacity. “How about the police radio?”

  “It don’t work too good. In fact, it’s shut off right now.”

  “I’d really appreciate it if you’d give it a try.”

  He grinned. “You was wonderin’ about them sirens, too, huh?”

  “Yeah. I love chasin’ sirens.”

  “Me, too, except my chickie, she gets scared when we get over ninety. Her brother was on this motorcycle and he rear-ended this lumber truck and man they had to scrape him off the back end and that’s no shit. So ever since, anyway, she gets scared when you hit around a hundred. You know how chicks are.”

  The front area of the station was a small box with a counter, a twirl rack of state road maps, a red Coke machine, Hawkeye calendars for every sport except marbles, cans of oil stacked neatly along the bottoms of the plate-glass windows and a glass cabinet up on the wall with new fan belts and the like.

  “Oh, yeah,” I said, hoping that my hands didn’t automatically go after this little twerp all on their own.

  The kid went behind the counter and produced a long, narrow radio. He plugged it into an outlet that was conveniently set into the countertop. A tiny amber light clicked on in the tuning bar of the radio. “Well, the sumbitch came on, anyway. Sometimes, it won’t even do that.”

  “It won’t, huh?”

  “Nope. I wanted to take it apart and work on it, but Wally won’t let me because of the refrigerator.”

  “What refrigerator?”

  “Oh, you know, the one out in back where the mechanics used to keep their sandw
iches and stuff like that.”

  “What happened to it?”

  “Well, me and Merle, he’s this friend of mine that Wally don’t like much, we spent two nights takin’ it apart, you know, tryin’ to figure out why it was makin’ all that noise, and the damned thing caught on fire.” He shook his head.

  “Sumbitch was just char and ashes.”

  “That’s why Wally won’t let you work on the radio?”

  “Yeah, you know how Wally is. He took some night classes out to the community college and now he thinks his shit don’t stink. You know how college guys are.”

  He started wrenching the tuning knob back and forth and swearing at it and shaking his head.

  “Hey,” he said as he continued to twist the knob back and forth, “how about that Buddy Holly, huh?”

  “Yeah. God, it was awful.”

  “You know I bet them guys, them singers, I bet they get more ass than a toilet seat.”

  “Yeah, I s’pose they do.”

  He reached in a drawer and pulled out the longest screwdriver I’d ever seen. God only knew what he was going to do with it. He started taking off the back of the radio. “You know what I wonder?” he said.

  “What’s that?”

  “You think any of them singers ever get to screw any of them chicks on Bandstand?”

  “That I wouldn’t know.”

  “You think Dick Clark ever screws ‘em?”

  “Most of them are underage.”

  “Hey, man, that kinda shit goes on all the time in Hollywood. Underage girls, queers, dope addicts, everything, man.”

  “Yeah, except it’s in Philadelphia.”

  “I thought Bandstand was in Hollywood.”

  “Nope. Philadelphia.”

  “No shit,” he said, amazed at the mysteries of existence. And that’s when the radio blasted him back into the big red Coke machine. His screwdriver had discovered electricity.

  “Whoa!” he said. “You see them sparks! That was really cool! Wait ‘til I tell Merle!”

  He came back to his radio and said, “Man, this little booger sure got a kick, don’t it?”

  “Sure seems that way. Well…” I said, starting to back up to the door.

  “Just a minute, man. Lemme try one more thing. Sometimes, if ya just whomp it a little.”

  Which was when he started pounding the radio against the edge of the counter. Not a timid let’s-try-th-and-see-if-it-works pounding, either.

  He was really whaling away. I expected to see the radio break into three or four pieces.