by Ed Gorman
I saw the car before he did. At least, I was the one to scream first.
Coming right at us. Doing a good 70 or
itself.
Long drab Buick.
Wind-numb face. Heart tearing at the prison of my chest wall. Feeling five years old. Totally helpless.
Head on, it was going to be.
We were close enough now to see the Buick driver’s face. Neatly combed white hair.
Rimless eyeglasses. Small white hands on the steering wheel. Panic just starting to explode his facial composure.
“Keys!” I yelled. “Get over! Get
over!”
He screamed.
The moment was gone. He was no longer his Uncle Ken.
He was the somewhat silly, somewhat stuffy man who always said way too much and way too little, who always told the corniest of jokes and found no setting inappropriate to selling you a car. I’d seen him whip out his deal notebook in the back of a funeral home while a wake was in progress.
He was that man again, and he was scared shitless.
He yanked the car into the proper lane. He was a good driver. He knew not to even touch the brakes. To simply put all his strength and concentration inffcontrolling the passage of the car at this speed. His foot lifted off the accelerator.
We were coasting. At around 100 mph.
Neither of us said anything. I don’t think I could have. My entire body was shaking. I very badly needed to deal with my bladder. I was relieved and angry, and then—z the car began to slow significantly, as the shapes all around me fell into familiar place again—I was just relieved.
When we were at 60, he said, “I’m
sorry.”
I just stared out at the countryside. I
wanted to spend the autumn-smoky afternoon up in the hills with the horses. Maybe take Mary up there on a picnic.
“You hear me, Sam? I said I was sorry.”
“Yeah, I heard you.”
“I shouldn’t’ve done that.”
“No, you shouldn’t.”
“I’ve always wanted to be reckless like that.”
“Well, you made it.”
We were coming into a small town named Byrum.
A Texaco station was just ahead. “I could use a pit stop.”
“So could I.”
He pulled into the station. It had recently been painted. You could still smell the paint. It was a friendly smell. He used the can first. I went inside and bought some Luckies.
The station man was a balding wiry guy with a pair of gleaming false teeth. “Mind if I go check out the car?” he said, as he gave me my smokes and change.
“Fine.”
“Didn’t get over to see one. I hear old Henry Ford’d be shittin’ bricks if he ever seen a car like this one.”
He went out and started inspecting it.
Keys came out of the john, which was located on the side of the station. He walked up to the front door and said, “Your turn.”
“I need your keys.”
“My keys?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?” Then his face showed recognition. “You think I might drive off?”
“It’s been known to happen.”
“I could’ve killed us back there. And I didn’t.”
“I still need the keys.”
“God, I don’t believe this.”
“The keys, Dick. Now.”
“I just don’t believe this!”
“Yeah, I know. You said that already.”
“You think you know somebody and then look what happens. The guy don’t even trust you.”
“Yeah,” I said. “You think you know somebody and he ends up killing two people.” I lit a Lucky. Put out my hand palm up. “The keys.”
He shoved his hand in his trouser pocket. I expected to see the keys. What I
saw was a small .38.
The station man was back. Keys stood off and waved him inside.
“I got about twenty-three bucks in there is all, mister,” he said to Keys.
“Shut up,” Keys said.
“You never told me why you killed them, Dick,” I said.
“Why?”
He shrugged. He looked sad and scared.
Panic had taken over. “He’d misspent his inheritance and needed money badly. He was my lawyer. He knew about the girl. He knew if it got out it would destroy my marriage and my career. He wanted more and more money.” I noticed he used pronouns instead of specific names.
“What’s he talking about?” the station man said.
“Just let him talk,” I said.
“His wife was the real mother. She started sneaking out to see the girl. You know, just as a friend.
I knew she’d tell her the truth someday. And my wife would find out.” His tears were shocking.
“All that woman wanted from me was to love her, and I couldn’t do it. It just wasn’t in me. I respected her and liked her and even probably cherished her in a way. But I couldn’t love her and I’ve made her miserable. I just couldn’t disgrace her too.”
“You kidnapped Mary?”
“I didn’t have any choice. Susan had her send off for Ellie’s birth certificate-Susan didn’t want her name involved—and after I killed Susan, Mary figured things out.
She brought me the birth certificate and said I should turn myself in. So I grabbed her. I was going to kill her too—but I couldn’t, somehow. I just couldn’t.”
“Give me the gun, Dick.”
“Save your breath, Sam. I’m leaving.”
“The gun.”
I saw the station man glancing at the cash register. Probably had a small handgun of his own in there. I said, “Forget about it.”
“Maybe he’ll kill us.”
“He won’t kill us. Relax.”
Keys was backing out the door. Keeping the gun on us. “Don’t come after me, Sam. I need to be alone for a while. I need to figure out how to handle this.”
“I’ll get you the best criminal
lawyer in Chicago. I promise you that. There’s nothing to hide anymore, Dick. It’s all coming out now anyway.”
“I just need some time alone.”
“Then take it.”
“You won’t grab this man’s car and come after me?”
“Nope.”
“You really won’t?”
“I really won’t.”
“You’re a good man, Sam.”
“Thanks. So are you.”
He looked surprised and then smiled bitterly. “Oh, yeah, that’s me. Just about the nicest killer a man could hope to meet.”
And then he took off running, agile for his size and age. The Edsel whipped out of the station, spewing pebbles.
The station man ran immediately to the phone on the counter and said, “Claudia, get me the sheriff’s department quick.”
There wasn’t any way I could stop him.
Eighteen
“Ok, McCain. Ready?”
She wanted to hear it. There was something unholy about it—her listening in on the extension phone as I informed Cliffie of the real killer—but one does not deny Judge Whitney her petty
pleasures.
I was using the phone at Pamela’s desk.
The Judge was waiting to pick up in her chambers. Pamela stood in the chamber doorway, ready to signal the Judge when it was time to pick up.
I dialed. I would’ve taken a lot more pleasure in this if the killer had turned out to be somebody I hated. I’d been keen on David Squires being the murderer, for instance. But with Keys? I couldn’t help it. I liked him. The life he’d led as a booster reminded me of the hunting scene in Sinclair Lewis’s
Babbitt where Babbitt has to take stock of his life—a very successful small-town life—and finds that none of it holds any meaning for him, that it was all a charade. And he wishes he were a little boy again and could start over; how different
it would be this time. I imagined Dick Keys was going through something l
ike that now. I imagined he was scared and lonely and remorseful, plus the fact that he’d never been able to love his wife and felt so guilty about it. …
“Police station.”
“The Chief, please.”
“Who’s calling?”
“Sam McCain.”
“Oh.” It was not a happy Oh. In fact, it was a downright unhappy Oh. “Hang on.”
A few moments later: “Chief here.”
The beautiful Pamela waving frantically for the Judge to pick up. A teeny, tiny click on the line.
“I just wanted to tell you, I know who the killer is, Chief.”
“So do I. And he’s sitting in jail right now.”
“Wrong man.”
“My ass.”
I could imagine the rapture the Judge was experiencing.
“Dick Keys.”
“Oh, sure.”
“I’m serious.”
“One of our leading businessmen? A deacon of my church? The man who serves hot meals to the needy every Christmas?”
“One and the same.”
“I don’t have time for this, McCain.”
“Just listen to me.” I told him everything. I gave him the name of the Texaco man who could back up my story about Keys’s confession.
“But Chalmers confessed.”
“If he did it’s because you beat him inffconfessing.”
“He fell down those stairs all by himself.”
“Of course he did. Like all the others.”
“What others?”
I sighed. “You’ve got the wrong man, Chief. I’ll call the Texaco guy and have him come in and see you. He’ll give you the details.
In the meantime, if I were you I’d start looking for Keys.”
“You bastard,” he said, and slammed down the phone.
The Judge let out a most undignified yelp and came running from her chambers.
She wore her judicial robes and was in her nyloned feet. She had her brandy and her Gauloise. And she threw her arms around me as if we were old lovers and planted a tasty kiss right on my lips. “Oh, God, McCain!
Did you hear him!”
“I heard him.”
“He’s such a dunce!”
“He certainly is that.”
“Beating a confession out of poor Chalmers! The man’s a Cro-Magnon!”
I noted the “poor” Chalmers. She was even feeling kindly toward the rabble at this exhilarating moment.
And then we sort of waltzed around the open expanse in front of Pamela’s desk.
“Oh, I wish I had a camera!” Pamela said. “What a great picture that would make, you two dancing like that!”
“Yes,” I said. “The Judicial
Quarterly would love it for their next cover.”
“You did it, McCain! You did it!”
And she gave me yet another kiss. This one, more properly, was on the cheek.
She then took a long, deep drag of her Gauloise and announced, “I shall be in my chambers. Gloating.”
I couldn’t help myself. I smiled. She was like a little girl on her birthday. The entire world was hers, at least for this moment.
And with that, she swept magnificently away.
“I’ve never seen her like this,” the beautiful Pamela said. She smiled. “Guess who’s taking me to the Governor’s dinner Saturday night?”
“Spare me,” I said.
She frowned. “I just thought you might be happy for me, McCain. I mean, we’re friends if nothing else.”
“All right. I’m happy for you.”
“You don’t sound happy.”
“Inside I’m happy. Deep inside.”
She looked hurt, and I realized she didn’t understand that it hurt me to know she would now be spending a lot of time with Stu.
I took her hand and held it. I wanted to say something sarcastic, and then I wanted to say something genuinely, profoundly, sickeningly hurtful. But all I said was, quietly, “I hope you have a good time. I’m sure
you’ll be the most beautiful girl there.”
“Thanks, McCain. I knew you had it in you.”
And with that, I left.
On the way back to my office, I stopped by the hospital. The weather had changed abruptly, the way it does in Iowa. Gone the blue skies, gone the fiery trees. The sky was a cold gray, the temperature dropping quickly, already below 50 degrees. You could even smell snow. It wouldn’t be long now.
Not even Fats Domino made me feel much better. I kept thinking about Keys and his poor wife. She’d be left alone. The scandal of adultery would be made far worse by the scandal of murder. In a small town like ours, murder is much more than a statistic. It brings down entire families, the way it did in the time of Balzac and Ibsen. I guess that’s the understanding I get from reading. That all people are the same, no matter how far back in history you go.
I skidded into the hospital, my heel catching on the wet rubber rug at the entrance door. A nun watched me stumble head first into the lobby.
“Ed Sullivan booked me for next Sunday night, Sister,” I said. “As the lead dancer.”
She smiled her nun’s smile and said, “She’s doing much better, McCain. Much better.”
“Her memory back?”
“She’s started recognizing people. Most people, anyway.”
A nurse was plumping Mary’s pillow for her when I walked in. “There you go. A nice shower and fresh clothes, and your dinner’ll be along in another hour or so.”
Mary’s smile was a measure of her condition.
It was back to three-quarters power. Which is damned powerful, believe me.
She looked at me. There was just a moment’s hesitation and then she said, “McCain!”
I walked over to her. I’d brought her a Herman Wouk novel and flowers, which the nurse took and put in a vase. The room was an art gallery of Get Well cards and a hothouse of flower-stuffed vases.
Mary said, holding my hands, “The nurse was telling me how you found me. On the
highway.”
I nodded. “I owe that to the black Ford.”
“The black Ford?”
I nodded. “I don’t know who she is. But she’s been around town lately in this Ford ragtop just like mine. Except it’s black. I was out on the highway, heading into town, and she suddenly appeared. So we started to drag.”
“Now, that’s mature.” The smile again.
“It’s that clean stretch of road. You can see for a couple of miles. I couldn’t help myself.
And I’m glad I did it. Dragging put me in the right spot to see you come up from that gully.”
“Well, then, I take it back.” She
laughed. “I’m very glad you acted maturely and broke the law and endangered your life by drag-racing with a beautiful woman.”
“I didn’t say anything about her being beautiful.”
“She’d have to be beautiful or the story wouldn’t be as good. All mystery women are beautiful. It’s in their club rules.”
“They have club rules?”
“Oh, yes. Developed over the
centuries.”
“Well, then, I’d say her dues are paid up.”
I leaned in and kissed her. First I kissed her on the cheek. Then I kissed her on the mouth. And I kissed her longer on the mouth than was strictly necessary.
“Say,” she said. “I’ll have to come to the hospital more often. I love all this attention from you. Especially the kiss.”
“My pleasure.” I took her hand.
She lay back. Sighed. “Sorry. I just need to rest a bit. That kiss took all my energy.”
I pulled up a chair and sat down. She dozed off quickly. I didn’t want to wake her up. It was all academic now anyway, what had happened to her. She was doing fine and the murderer had been caught. In time, she’d remember everything and we’d talk about it.
Dusk came early. The transition was quick.
What happened was the sky darkened by four or five shades on the
gray scale, letting a few stars be seen in the sweep of early night.
Streetlights came on, looking lonely. You could hear news on several Tv sets
in other rooms. Nurses squeaked by in the hall, rubber soles official and officious. The dinner cart started rattling from room to room.
I mst’ve held her hand for close to an hour.
On and off, of course. In movies constant lovers really are constant. But not in life. Not in my life anyway. I occasionally had to take my hand back to dry off the palm, shake feeling back into it, scratch my head, light a cigarette, pour myself a little more water.
Then I’d put my hand gently back in hers and the feeling would come back. The surprising feeling of contentment, of genuine peace, that touching her had suddenly inspired in me. I put our hands on her womb, imagined a child there. Andfora long time I watched the shadow play of the streetlights on her face and imagined it at various stages of her life: her thirties, her forties, her fifties, her sixties. And when she was an old woman, though it was difficult to imagine in any especially vivid away because her youth was so perfect and indelible now.
The cart came to the door. Mary woke and clipped on her light.
“You ready for dinner?” a heavy woman in a pink uniform said.
“Yes, thanks.”
The smell of the food made me realize I was hungry. It also made me realize that I wasn’t hungry for hospital food. God knows they try. You see those folks in the kitchen down there working their asses off trying their best to prepare a genuinely delicious meal. But something happens to hospital food. It never quite tastes familiar. It is sort of like food but not quite, the only food that can make you long for an airline meal.
She ate hungrily, fork and knife flashing.
“This is great.”
“First it was amnesia. Now it’s delusions.”
She grinned and shook her head. “Ever the cynic. This stuff is actually pretty good.
Maybe I could order an extra meal for you tomorrow night.”
“Only if I get to drink a quart of gin first.”
“McCain, you couldn’t drink a quart of gin.
