Sam McCain - 02 - Wake Up Little Susie

by Ed Gorman

  Cliffie was magnanimous and let me drive myself back to town. Sans handcuffs.

  Cliffie double-parked out front so everybody’d be sure to see him bringing in Chalmers. Just in case anybody was too dense to miss all his subtle machinations, he stood in the middle of the street with his bullhorn. He wanted an audience and got one immediately: decent folk in faded housedresses and work-worn factory pants and shirts and little kids squinting into the sun to see what dangerous specimen the chief had brought in this time.

  He could have pulled up behind the building, of course, and nobody would have seen him.

  “Stand back, everybody,” he said. “We’re bringing in a desperate criminal.”

  Even the old ladies giggled about that one.

  Desperate criminal. Cliffie loved

  melodrama almost as much as a keynote speaker on the Fourth of July.

  He repeated himself: “Stand back, everybody.”

  Then he handed the bullhorn to Billy, yanked his own sawed-off from the front seat, opened the back door, and said, “You take it nice and easy now.

  You try anything, and your teeth are gonna be chewin’ lead.”

  I hadn’t heard the “chewin’ lead” one before.

  I hoped I didn’t have to hear it ever again.

  Chalmers, pale, forlorn, about as dangerous as a ground squirrel, got out of the patrol car with his head hung low. Embarrassed.

  Cliffie gave him a hard shove. Chalmers turned to glare at him. Cliffie shoved him again.

  I grabbed his elbow. “What’s your

  problem?”

  “He ain’t movin’ fast enough, counselor.

  That’s my problem. Now take your hands off me.” And with that he gave me a shove too. I knew better than to push back. He had an audience. He’d love to put on a show with me as the foil.

  Inside the police station, there was a lot of noise as shoes scuffled down the narrow, dusty hallway to the interrogation room. Keys jangled. Sam Brownes creaked. Men coughed.

  Prisoners in the back shouted, wanting to know what was going on. The door to the cells was ajar. They wanted some kind of diversion. Cliffie wouldn’t let them have radios or magazines or books.

  “How about opening a window?” I said.

  “I’m sorry it don’t smell better for you, counselor,” Cliffie said.

  It smelled of sweat, puke, and tobacco. It was a dingy little place not much bigger than a coffin.

  There was a single overhead light and a card table with a wire Webcor tape recorder on it. There were also signed black-and-white publicity stills of Norman Vincent Peale and Richard Nixon.

  Cliffie pushed the still-handcuffed Chalmers in a chair and sat next to the card table. He got the recorder turned on and rolling, and said, “I’m recording every word you’re going to say, Chalmers.

  You understand?”

  Chalmers looked at me. I nodded. Then he looked at Cliffie and nodded.

  It was what you might expect. Cliffie came up with twenty different ways to ask the same question which was, basically, Why’d you kill them?

  He was doing a terrible job. The County Attorney’s crew would have to interrogate Chalmers themselves.

  He blubbered on.

  It was forty-seven minutes exactly before Cliffie needed to go to the can. I needed to talk to Chalmers.

  “I’ll be back,” Cliffie said. “Don’t you touch nothin’, counselor.”

  We exchanged unfrly glances and he left.

  I leaned over and whispered in Chalmers’s ear, “Who sends you the check every month?”

  He looked surprised and shook his head.

  “It’s important,” I said.

  “No it’s not.”

  That’s what I’d been trying to remember: the curious monthly check.

  “It don’t have nothin’ to do with any of this.” He was whispering too.

  “I think it does. Ellie isn’t your

  daughter.”

  “Who told you that?”

  I nodded to the machine.

  He whispered again, “Who told you that?”

  “I figured it out. Now I need to know where your check comes from.”

  He looked as if he was considering telling me when Cliffie came back in.

  “You didn’t try ‘n’ erase that machine, did you?”

  “Cliffie, I wouldn’t try and erase the machine. I’d try and erase the tape.”

  “You goddamned college boys.”

  “Yeah, we’re taking over the world.”

  “Shut up, now. We’re going back to the questions.”

  Another thrilling half hour. Cliffie’d verbally lunge at Chalmers and I’d object; Cliffie’d lunge again, I’d object again. It was a dull little legal dance.

  “You’re gonna need a lawyer, bub.”

  “I got a lawyer,” Chalmers said.

  “I mean a real one.”

  “This is the comedy part of his act,” I said.

  A knock at the door. A cop leaned in.

  “The mayor says he needs to talk to you, Chief.”

  “He say about what?”

  “He never does, Chief.”

  Cliffie sighed. “I finally start gettin’

  somewhere with this killer I got here and the mayor calls.”

  “Life’s tough,” I said, “when you’re a celebrity.”

  “Someday I’ll celebrity you, McCain,”

  Cliffie said, standing up, which is no easy task when you weigh what he does. “And don’t try and erase that”—he caught himself in time—?tape, either.”

  “I’m proud of you, Cliffie.”

  Another exchange of scowls and Cliffie was gone.

  I started whispering again. “Who sends

  you the checks every month?”

  “I don’t know. They’re just in my

  mailbox.” He looked angry. “It doesn’t have anything to do with these murders. You know what would happen to that kid if this town ever figured out who her real old man was?”

  “Believe it or not, I think she’d like to know for herself. I think she could put up with anyone who made fun of her. And anyway, you’re underestimating people here. They’d be good to her. They’d understand.”

  “I know a few who wouldn’t.”

  “A few. But not many.”

  He sighed and started to raise his hands to wipe his face. He’d forgotten about the handcuffs. “These damned things.”

  “Tell me before Cliffie comes back,” I whispered. “Who sends you the checks?”

  Footsteps in the hall. Cliffie’s steps, thunderous. Door being flung open.

  And then, in that millisecond, Chalmers leaned close and told me.

  Seventeen

  For all the mixed reviews the Edsel had been getting, there sure were a lot of gawkers when I got over to Dick Keys’s that afternoon: farmers and townspeople alike, the farmers still raw red from summer sun, the townspeople wearing the kind of tans you only get on beaches.

  Three salesmen were giving the same spiel at once, each a few sentences behind the other. They sounded like a ragged chorus.

  I spent a few minutes looking one over, a convertible with enough horsepower to outrun any car the highway patrol put down on the pavement. The gadgetry got me. If I ever bought a new car, I’d want a Corvette or a

  Thunderbird, stripped and ready for action. The interior control panel of the Edsel, with all its chrome gimmicks, was sort of comic.

  “Dick around?” I asked one of the mechanics.

  The guy streaked his white coverall with greasy fingers, yanked out a Cavalier, and torched a Zippo. In the middle of exhaling and coughing, he said, “He’ll be right back. He ran over to Uptown Auto to get Gil a new

  part.” He shook his head. “Best boss I ever had, except for the Navy. He ain’t afraid to pitch in, you know what I mean? Somethin’ needs to be done, he don’t care if he’s boss or not, he’ll do it.”

  I went in the waiting room and read an ancient Tv Guide.
There was an article on James Arness of Gunsmoke and how he’d played the monster in The Thing, and how this new guy Ernie Kovacs was ushering in a new era of “hip” Tv, and then a piece on the family life of Lucy and Desi and how they really were just as lovey-dovey as they appeared on the air.

  I was trying not to think about what I’d come here for.

  Dick Keys was one of the town’s best. He’d been around since before I was born, hawking cars and boosting the town. He was a decent guy.

  He came in and said, “Rick said you were looking for me, Sam. How about you wait in my office?

  You want some coffee?”

  “I thought maybe you’d take me for a ride.”

  “A ride? You serious?”

  “Sure. Try out the Edsel.”

  He looked at me. “You? In an Edsel?

  C’mon. You can’t shit a shitter.”

  “I just want to talk a little, Dick.”

  “Talk?”

  He watched me carefully, as if I were holding something secret and suspicious behind my back.

  “Yeah. Just a little talk is all.”

  He hesitated, then shrugged. “Talk.

  Sure. Why not? Well, you go pick out the beast you wanna ride in and I’ll meet you on the lot.”

  “Appreciate it.”

  He started to leave the reception area and then stopped. “I heard Cliff found Chalmers.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Arrested him and charged him, huh?”

  “That’s the story.”

  “A lot of people are going to breathe easier now.”

  “I sure will,” I said.

  He smiled. “I still can’t see you in an Edsel, Sam.”

  I picked out a lemon-and-lime one.

  Two-door. Not only could you make love on the seats, you could raise a family inside

  the plush confines of the thing.

  Keys saw me and waved. He disappeared back inside, returning moments later with a pair of keys.

  When he got in the driver’s seat, he said, “Believe it or not, they’re starting to sell.

  Got a call from my buddy over in Des Moines. He said that on Saturday people acted kind’ve funny around them. Didn’t know how to react. But he said by Sunday they started buying them. That’s been my experience too. Sold three this morning, including a station wagon. Top of the line.”

  We were already out in traffic. Sunny Friday noon hour. We passed the library. I wanted to be sixteen again and sitting on the steps in the warmth and light and reading a science-fiction magazine—y know, the kind you have to keep the cover turned over because it always shows a half-naked girl being felt up by a purple guy with six very busy hands.

  “Anyplace special?”

  “How about the river road?”

  “You’re making me nervous, Sam.” The once-handsome face had developed a slight tic under the left eye.

  “I don’t mean to.”

  “Something’s going on, isn’t it?”

  “I guess so. Let’s get out of town before we start talking.”

  He was wound very tight.

  “How about rolling down the windows?” I said.

  “Kill the astc, you mean?”

  “Astc?”

  He laughed nervously. “That’s car-dealer talk for air-conditioning.”

  “Oh. Yeah. Let’s kill the astc. The park smells great this time of year. All the leaves and everything.”

  “I sure wish I knew what was going on.”

  He killed the astc. He had power windows.

  Soon we were breathing the air God intended us to.

  And then we were on the river road.

  The Edsel had power, no doubt about that. The river was on the right. On the left were shaggy bluffs of pin oak and pine. An old barnstormer was out for the afternoon, a real old-time showoff, swooping and tumbling and diving so fast birds sat by in frozen envy.

  “Imagine how free you could be if you had a plane like that,” Keys said.

  “Yeah.”

  “I bet that’s the very first thing man wished for. I mean, way back when we had just learned how to stand up straight. To fly. To have that freedom.” Then he added, “To escape.”

  I said, gently, “Some things you can’t escape, I guess.”

  He looked over at me. “That’s what my old man always said during the Depression. That there wasn’t any escape. They went on strike, the milk farmers. Your dad ever tell you about that?”

  “Uh-uh.”

  “Right up north of here. Hambling Road.

  About fifty farmers with shotguns. They were getting only a few pennies on the dollar for their milk, so they decided to make the truck drivers dump it rather than take it into the cities. They got these spiked telegraph poles and laid them across the road. Sheriff and his deputies showed up. But the men didn’t back down. My uncle was one of the strikers. He always bragged about what he did. Walked right up to the sheriff with his sawed-off and said, “I’ll take your gun and your badge.” And damned if the sheriff didn’t hand them over. Guess he figured my uncle would’ve killed him. And he probably would’ve, knowing Ken. So what they did was dump out half the milk and then they drove the rest on into Cedar Rapids and gave the rest away free in the poor sections. Isn’t that a hell of a story?”

  “Yeah,” I said, and it was. “Your dad involved?”

  He made a sour face. “No. Not us, me or him.” He smiled with great sadness. “We’re the salesman type. Talk your head off and don’t do jack shit. Hell, half the men in this town might as well be women, the way they’ve lived their lives. And I’m one of them.” He sighed. His knuckles were white on the steering wheel. “I haven’t even taken care of my wife very well. She deserved a hell of a lot better than me. All the years she put up with me. And she didn’t get anything out of it.

  Well, it’s her turn now. I just want her to know that for once in my life I’m a man. I did something honorable. She needs to know that, and I need to know it too.”

  I wondered what he was talking about.

  I knew he’d killed Susan and Squires, but he wasn’t exactly saying that. I needed him to say it.

  “You scared to have me open this up?” he asked.

  “Nah. It’d be fun.”

  “One hundred and twenty?”

  “If it’ll do it.”

  “Oh, it’ll do it.”

  “Then let’s go.”

  So we went. Faster and faster. He didn’t slow down much on the long, deep curves:

  … 100 … 105. I gripped the dash with both hands. I was starting to get cold.

  He looked over at me. “Scared?”

  “A little.”

  He looked defeated. “You figured it out, didn’t you?”

  One-twenty pegged. The countryside had become an impressionistic painting—colors fading one into another, the shapes of farmhouses and silos and outbuildings blurred.

  “Figured what out?”

  “Who killed Susan and David.”

  “Yeah. Yeah, I guess I did.”

  “This is some motor, huh?”

  There were several curves ahead of us I didn’t want to think about. “Yeah, it’s some motor.”

  “Maybe I should just run us off the road.”

  “I don’t want to die, Dick. I mean, if I’ve got a say in this at all.”

  He shook his head. “Those Rotarians aren’t going to believe it, are they? When they hear who killed Susan and David.” He laughed.

  “They’re women. They sit around and gossip and bad-mouth people and then go back and sit in their offices and make their secretaries do all the work for about one-third the pay. If that.”

  “Just watch the road, will you?”

  “It’s funny, Sam. Right now I feel

  freer than I have since I was a boy. I really d. I feel free. I’ve got life and death in my hands. One little flick of the wrist and we’re both dead. That’s man stuff. It’s not all this rah-rah business bullshit. You don’t have to smile
and kiss ass and be a clown all the time.

  I always wanted to be like my Uncle Ken. He ended up being a labor organizer. He’d bust heads when he needed to; I think he even took pleasure in it. But when I got a chance

  to marry the richest girl in the valley, my old man really pushed me. She couldn’t even give me a child. I used to go into Chicago once a month on some pretext, and man did I whore it up. I did the whole thing: colored whores, Chinese whores, Mexican whores. You name it.

  While my wife was sitting home alone.”

  We screamed around a long curve and shot past an oncoming pickup.

  When the road straightened out, he said, “You know about the kid? Ellie?”

  “Yeah.”

  “She’s a good kid.”

  “Yeah, she is.”

  “She doesn’t know about me, and I don’t ever want her to. Chalmers is an ex-con, but he’s been a good father to her. I never would’ve believed it.”

  “We’re coming up to Tolliver Hill,

  Dick. And you’re on the wrong side of the road.”

  Tolliver Hill was a local legend. More people had been killed on it than any other hill in this part of the state. Kids drag-raced out here. The ultimate danger. One of them would end up on the wrong side of the hill as they went over it. And some poor quiet family of three or four coming up would get their grille pushed into the backseat.

  And everybody would be dead.

  Anybody could be on the other side of that hill, I thought, as we approached it now. If he’d heard what I said, he didn’t let on.

  We were going far too fast for me to jump. And if I reached over for the key he might flip the car, accidentally or on purpose, it didn’t matter.

  For the first time, as the Edsel started up the base of the hill, the stroke of the motor sounded slightly labored.

  “Get on the right side of the road!” I screamed at him.

  He glanced at me. No expression. None at all. Then a grin. “Hang on, Sam.

  Hang on!”

  We went up the hill at 106 mph, all he could get out of the car on this steep a climb.

  Still the wrong side of the road. Still the grin on his face. For just this moment, he was his Uncle Ken.

  No boring Chamber of Commerce luncheons. No more high school football booster-club

  meetings. No more slavish ass-kissing of old money who felt he’d married his way into respectability. He was his own man now, and a dangerous man at that. I could sense the power in his hands and arms, muscles clawing and stretching just below his skin. Certainly that power was in the madness of the sharp blue gaze and the burry rasp of the voice.