by Ed Gorman
No Mary.
In Chicago—or even Des Moines—a
person can easily lose herself. So many places to go. But in Black River Falls, if she was out tonight, I should’ve run into her.
No Mary.
This left two possibilities. That she was visiting somebody, tucked inside a private house or apartment, or something had happened to her.
The former seemed unlikely. Because if she were visiting somebody, she’d have called her mom and told her so.
Leaving accident or foul play.
I wouldn’t have been so concerned if she hadn’t told her mother that she had something important to tell me. Mary wasn’t much for drama. If she said something was important, it was.
I was wheeling around downtown when I saw Chip O’Donlon swaggering down the street, glancing at his reflection in store windows. He was an Adonis, he was; just ask him. I’d inherited Chip as a client from his older brother, who was currently serving two-to-five for setting fire to a rival’s garage, said rival having had the temerity to start dating the girl the brother had dumped six months earlier. I hadn’t been all that sorry to see him go. He was Adonis senior and real hard to take.
Chip. Maybe it was the sunglasses at night. Maybe it was his always calling me Dads or Daddy-O. Maybe it was because the cheap bastard never paid me. Chip liked telling people he had “a lawyer” and they’d been “in court” that morning and maybe he’d get “sent up” and maybe he wouldn’t. His offenses ran to speeding, drag racing, giving beer to minors, and using
profane language on a public street: nothing that would get him sent to prison, nothing that would mess up his pretty face. But he enjoyed the bad-boy image.
I whipped up to the curb and said, “Get in.”
“Hey, Daddy-O.” And he gave me a
jaunty little salute.
“You hear what I said? Get in.”
He got in. He was wearing enough aftershave to make a stadium tear up. “You got a hot poker up your butt or something?”
“No, but you will if you don’t pay me the money you owe me.”
The girls say he looks like Tab Hunter.
He dresses like him anyway, all the California cool clothes you can buy between here and “Chi-town,” as he frequently refers to Chicago. “Hey, man, you know I’ll pay you.”
“When?”
“Soon.”
“How soon is soon?”
“Real soon.”
I sighed. Actually, I didn’t expect ever to get my money from this dimwit. But I had an idea of how to resolve the trouble Jeff Cronin and Linda Granger were having. To do that, I had to talk him into something. “When’re you going to get a job, Chip?”
“As soon as my unemployment runs out.”
I sighed again for effect and said, “I’ve got an idea.”
“I hope it’s a short one, Dad. I’ve got to meet a chick in five minutes.” He gave me the wink. “I screwed her right on her car hood last night. Right out in the park. How about that action, Jack?”
God only knew what he was saying about poor Linda. He was a bullshit artist, as I said.
If he slept with even 30 percent of the girls he bragged about, I’d be surprised. “I’ve got this equipment in my office I need to try out.”
“What kind of equipment?”
“Why don’t we say you’ll find out when you get there?”
“When would this be, Dad?”
He was lucky I wasn’t his dad. “I’ll have to call you to set it up.”
“Will it hurt?”
“No.”
“Can I tell people?”
“Tell people?”
“You know. Like what I’m doing and everything.”
“Oh, sure.” By the time he got done telling the story, he’d be a guinea pig involved in atomic radiation tests.
“And why would I do this?”
“Because you’re such a nice kid, Chip.”
He giggled. He had a high, annoying giggle. “Sure, Dad. Sure.”
“And because I’ll wipe out your bill.”
“No shit?”
“No shit.”
“The whole thing?”
“The whole thing.”
“Cool,” he said.
“Now get your ass out of my car.”
“The whole thing,” he said, as he was opening the door. “Wow.”
I tried the pizza place out on the highway.
Our little town had just discovered pizza last year, a few years after we discovered television, the reception here being lousy until Cedar Rapids stations went on the air in 1953. There’d been resistance to pizza at first. To a town in the middle of the farm belt, it seemed awfully exotic, even slightly suspicious. The first month, Luigi’s Famous Genuine Italian Pizza hadn’t done so well. “Luigi” was a classmate of mine named Don Henderson, and how genuine his pizza was could only be determined by his genuine Italian chef, Jeff
O’Keefe, all freckled, pug-nosed,
red-haired sixteen years of him.
Then our local basketball team made it to the state finals. They lost after two games but still, for a town our size, just going was a serious achievement, especially considering that our starting center had lost two fingers in his dad’s combine a week before basketball season started. On the way back, fighting a blizzard, their bus broke down near Luigi’s and the kids had no choice but to try that most exotic and suspicious of foods. They stuffed themselves, gorged themselves, made themselves sick. Never had they tasted better food. And over the next few days, anchovy missionaries, they spread the word throughout town.
Don Henderson was in business at last.
No Mary.
Don hadn’t seen her for a couple of weeks, in fact. In fact, he hadn’t seen me for a couple of weeks. What’s the matter? You don’t like my pizza anymore? (i noticed he’d picked up a modest Italian accent somewhere along the way.)
Still no Mary.
I went back home. A nice new
red-and-blue Buick was parked at the curb.
Mrs. Goldman’s gentleman caller. I
imagined she was dazzling him.
I pulled my car in back and went up the rear steps. Or tried to. Somebody was blocking them.
At first, in the soft moonlight, I wasn’t sure who it was. He wore a cotton-lined jacket, gray work pants, and heavy steel-toed work boots. With his collar up, and his eyes burning angrily out of the mask of shadows, he would have made a perfect cover villain on an old pulp magazine.
He said, “You talk to me a few minutes, McCain?”
“Sure, Mike. The steps here all right?”
“Fine.”
I sat on the bottom step. He sat up a few higher. We both lit up cigarettes. It was chilly but good chilly. The cigarette tasted great. I felt guilty. Nothing should give me pleasure when Mary was missing. And she was definitely missing.
“I think he’s gonna arrest me.”
“Cliffie?”
“Yeah.”
“You didn’t kill her?”
“Hell, no, I didn’t.”
“Squires said you were bugging them.”
“I was. It was stupid but I did it.
Two-three times I parked out by his house and just sat there.”
“Why?”
“Because the sonofabitch sent me up without givin’
my public defender information that woulda cleared me.”
“You couldn’t appeal?”
“He destroyed the evidence.”
A familiar story among ex-cons. Not only had they been framed, they’d been framed by a Da with an inexplicable hatred for
them.
“Why would he do that?”
“I knocked up his sister.”
“What?”
“Back in high school. Before your time.
Forty-two. Me ‘n’ Helen used to sneak off.
Her folks hated me. I got her pregnant.
They tried to run me out of town but they couldn’t.
<
br /> Soon as he got to be Da, he came after me. He waited till he had a good chance to get me. I wasn’t in on that armed robbery. I’d been trying to stay out of trouble. I’d been in a lot of little scrapes but nothing big. A friend of mine stuck up a gas station one night and got caught. Squires made him a deal. He wouldn’t serve much time if he swore I was driving the car. He served two years; I served nearly eight.”
“You can prove this?”
“My friend died in the can. Somebody cut his throat.”
I believed him. There were all sorts of reasons not to—y’d naturally resent the man who put you away for eight years—but the simple way he told it seemed authentic. No anger, no bitterness.
I also had another thought. Maybe Squires had hired me just so I’d keep him apprised of everything I learned. Cliffie would bumble around for weeks and not find the right man. But Squires might have figured I might uncover something.
He’d want to know everything if he was going to frame Chalmers. It was the only rational reason Squires would ever have come to me for help.
Nothing else made sense.
“What happened to Helen?”
“Married a doctor. Lives in downstate Illinois.”
“What happened to the baby?”
“Abortion. Her old man knew a doc in La.” He took a deep drag on the
cigarette. “Funny. Couple of times she sent me a postcard in the can. On the date she had the baby cut out of her. Said she still thought about me sometimes. And the kid. She’s a nice gal.
Nothing like the rest of her family.”
“You think Squires knew about the cards she sent?”
“Probably not.”
“So he just wants to frame you for old
times’ sake?”
“I smacked him around pretty hard one day.”
“When was this?”
“His office. When he was questioning me about the stickup. I lost my temper and went for him.
Took a couple of guys to pull me off him.”
Humiliation was something a man like Squires would never forget.
“What happens to Ellie if Cliffie
arrests you?”
He shook his head. Looked up at the clear, starry night. In the distance you could hear the high school marching band practicing for homecoming weekend.
“That’s what I’m scared of.”
“You want a lawyer, right?”
“Right.”
“You’ve got one. Cliffie makes a move on you, call me.” I dug out one of the cards I always carry. “Day or night.”
“I’ll do my best to pay you.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I said. Squires was using me and I resented it. Paying him back would be pay aplenty.
“I still have dreams about Helen.”
“Apparently she still has dreams about you too.”
“Two people who should be together, and somehow it never happens.”
I tried not to think of the beautiful Pamela.
Especially with Mary missing.
“Call me if you need me.”
“I really appreciate this, McCain.”
Upstairs, I phoned Squires at home.
No answer. I tried his office. No answer.
Then I decided to give Judge Whitney the satisfaction of telling her she was right.
Brahms was loud in the background when her man Andrew picked up. He has an accent. Some think it’s British. Some think it’s German.
I think it’s strictly Warner Brothers.
He’s from St. Louis, for God’s sake.
She said, in her brandied evening voice, “I hope you’re working hard.”
“Very hard.”
“Good. Then I can enjoy my loafing.”
“I just called to say you were right about Squires.”
I brought her up to date.
“Looks to me as if he wanted
to learn everything a competent cop would find out about the murder. He didn’t want anything to get in the way of his framing Chalmers.”
“You don’t have any doubts about Chalmers’s story?”
“Not really.”
“Now don’t take offense, McCain, but I know how you people from the Knolls stick together.”
“Not any more than you country-club people do.”
“I don’t know what you’ve got against country clubs. It’s a good thing I know you like money.
Otherwise I might start suspecting you were a Red.”
“I think he’s telling the truth.”
“Once Cliffie arrests him, you may have a hard time convincing anybody about Squires’s part in all this.” A pause. I could hear her sipping, then taking a deep drag on her Gauloise.
“Have you considered the possibility that Squires is more than an opportunist?” I asked.
“Meaning what?”
“Well, one way we could look at this is that he’s simply taking advantage of a situation he didn’t have anything to do with. Somebody murdered his wife; on the spur of the moment, Squires decides to frame your friend Chalmers.”
“On the other hand—”
“On the other hand, of course, Squires is behind the whole thing. He killed his wife and had Chalmers all ready to go as chief suspect.”
“That’s how you see it?”
“Maybe he was tired of Susan. Maybe she wouldn’t let him out of the marriage—or threatened a scandal if she left him. He’d beaten her up pretty badly several times. A guy with political ambitions sure wouldn’t want that kind of thing out and about.”
“But Squires seems so unlikely—”
“Now you’re going country-club on me. Just because he gets a manicure doesn’t mean he’s not a killer.”
“By the way, I noticed that Lenny Bernstein doesn’t have manicured nails. Isn’t that strange?”
“V. Isn’t that the eleventh commandment: Thou shalt have manicured nails?”
“On the other hand, he’s most courtly and devastatingly handsome.”
“How nice for the two of you. Can we
get back to the murder now?”
“I thought you just might be interested when somebody of Lenny’s stature pays a visit to this cow pie of a state.”
“Why don’t you share that metaphor with the Chamber of Commerce? I’m sure they’d love it.”
Another gulp of brandy. “So, before you get any more tiresome, McCain, what do you propose to do next?”
“I propose to find Mary.”
I told her about Mary’s strange absence.
“She’s a beautiful and intelligent girl.
I’m sure she’s fine.”
God only knew what that meant, but it was getting late and the brandy was flowing freely.
“I’m going to try and find Squires too.”
“Why?”
“So I can resign. I don’t want to be part of his charade anymore.”
“That seems like a sensible idea. Good night, McCain. Just as long as we catch the real murderer before Cliffie does, that’s all that matters.”
I started to say good night but she’d already hung up.
Twelve
The next two days were frantic. There was no word about Mary. And I kept calling the Illinois number about the ‘ee Chevy. No answer.
One of Cliffie’s third cousins had run into a manure wagon and had twice failed to appear for his scheduled court appearance before Judge Whitney. She found this intolerable. I spent most of the following forty-eight hours hunting down Bud “Pug” Sykes. He worked as a county assessor and had long displayed an affection for the bottle. I’m sure he was hiding out. This was between Cliffie and the Judge. Pug was incidental.
I found him the next county over. He was sitting through a western double feature with Also “Lash” La Rue and Monte Hale. I’d
never cared for these gentlemen. “Lash” was a little too ornate for me; Monte, I’m sorry to say, always looked a little dense. Pug had been kind enough to park out in front of
the theater,
making it easy for me to see his license plate.
On the drive back, he said, “I got
t’get me one of them whips. Like that Lash La Rue.” He was holding up family tradition: food stains on his work jacket, shirt, and trousers, and a dab of mustard on one cheek.
“I can see where that’d come in handy. A bullwhip like that.”
“Bet cousin Cliff’d like one too.”
I was so used to people calling him Cliffie, Cliff sounded strange.
“Cliff told me I didn’t have to go to that there hearing unless I wanted to,” he said. “And I didn’t want to.”
“You’re in violation of the law, Pug. You have to show up. You be nice to the Judge, and she’ll be nice to you.”
Pug snorted. “Cliff always says, “I wouldn’t screw that old bitch with your dick, Pug.”” He giggled. “That Cliff.”
“Yeah,” I said. “A million laughs.”
He was still giggling. “Hell, who needs Jackie Gleason when you got Cliff around?”
As soon as I dropped Pug off at
Judge Whitney’s office, I went straight to Mary’s house. The street was sunny and lazy in another Indian summer afternoon. A small girl in pigtails rode a rusty old
tricycle furiously up the cracked
sidewalk. Then she stopped. She wanted to watch me walk up to the Traverses’ door.
She could have been Mary or Pamela fifteen years earlier, that smart little face, that clean but mended dress. The good ones in the Knoll never gave in to the temptation to go around dirty. Maybe they had little money and even less hope, but by God they were clean.
Miriam Travers had gotten old before her time. Life hadn’t been easy. She’d lost a brother in the big war and a son in Korea, and now her husband had serious heart problems and her daughter was missing. The face was still pretty, the body still slender, but there was a defeated air about her, like a village that has been sacked by a particularly brutal army.
“Did you find her?” For just that moment, with hope in her lovely gray eyes, the hair was girlishly dark once more and the faded housedress a stylish frock. Miriam Travers
was a young woman again, and life ahead looking happy.
