by Ed Gorman
I found his trailer and pulled up. The yard was picked up and the trailer looked homey with crisp yellow-flowered curtains in the windows.
He looked over at me and grinned coldly. “You went to all this trouble, man, and I wasn’t no help at all, was I?”
“Nope. You weren’t.”
“And I ain’t gonna be, either.”
I decided to lay it out for him. “I’ll be real interested in what caliber gun killed Susan Whitney.”
The fear was in his face again. “It ain’t none of my business, man. And I could care less about them two.”
I left the keys in the ignition and opened the door. In the rearview, I could see my dad’s blue ’52 Chevy coupe coming up the road.
I got out, closed the door, and then leaned back in. “You ever find that forty-five of yours, let me know.”
“How’d you know it was a forty-five, man? Huh?”
But I’d decided to be just as uncooperative as he was. “See you around, Darin.”
Then I walked back to my dad’s coupe.
8
I STILL REMEMBER STANDING on the platform at the train depot and watching my dad wave to us when he came home from World War II. I was shocked. My parents are small people. My mom is five-two and has never cleared ninety pounds. But I’d grown up with my mom and was used to her size. My dad was a different matter. I’d seen a lot of John Wayne and Ronald Reagan—two of the many brave movie stars who hadn’t actually gone to war—war movies, and so I just figured my dad would be this big heroic kind of guy, too. He’d been gone a long time. Well, he wasn’t big and heroic-looking. In fact, he looked like a kid. He was five-six and weighed maybe 130 and had dishwater blond hair. His khaki uniform looked too big for him, gave him a vulnerability that made him seem even less soldierly. He was an utter stranger to me. The last time I’d seen him I’d been seven years old. I felt sort of ashamed of him, actually, how young and vulnerable he looked in the midst of all these other towering GIs. Why couldn’t I have a dad who looked like Robert Mitchum? And I’ve always been ashamed of myself for feeling that. I know that when I see him in his coffin over at the Fitzpatrick Funeral Home, that’s what I’ll think of, how I betrayed him in my heart that first day he came back from the war.
The other thing I always remember about him was how he used to jitterbug with my mother on the linoleum in the kitchen in those good giddy days right after the fighting stopped. They’d play the Andrews Sisters and Ella Fitzgerald and Benny Goodman and Glenn Miller and they’d dance for hours. They stayed home a lot, as if they didn’t want to share each other with anybody else. They’d have a quart of Hamms beer on the oilcloth-covered table (I’ve always loved the smell of oilcloth) and the amber eye of the radio would burn far into the night as music poured from its speakers.
That wasn’t too long ago but it was hard to believe it was the same guy. Bald, stooped, nearsighted. The war hadn’t taken nearly as much out of him as his various jobs did afterward. Just as I’d barely recognized him that day on the train platform, I had a hard time recognizing him these days. Small to begin with, now he seemed to shrink even smaller in his gray Penney’s overcoat and blue Irish wool walking cap.
I got in the car. The heater was on. So was Bill Haley. Somehow my dad had picked up a fondness for rock and roll, one not shared by my mom. He was watching Darin slip and slide up to his trailer.
“I wonder what the hell went wrong with him,” my dad said. “I always thought he’d have a nice future. And he’s got such a nice wife and all.” He shook his head. “I s’pose it’s growin’ up out here. How colored people get treated, I mean.” Dad had all the insecurities that go along with being a small and somewhat delicate man. But instead of using them to hate or bully, he’d turned them into empathy and wisdom. He always watched the CBS Evening News with Douglas Edwards and watched what the white cops were doing to black people trying to ride whites-only city buses. Stuff like that got to him as much as it did me. Even my mom, who didn’t vote because she hated all politicians equally, had tears in her eyes when she saw little Negro kids blasted off the streets with fire hoses and their parents clubbed to their knees.
“I found him over at Paddy’s.”
Dad made a face. “I wonder why he does that. He knows they’ll just throw him out. Poor bastard.”
He put the coupe in reverse, we whipped backward into a small drive, and then turned back toward town. The coupe was warm and snug.
“Sykes is lookin’ for you.”
“Sykes?” I said.
“Yeah. He called the warehouse and asked if I knew where you were. And then he called your mom out to the house.”
“He say what he wanted?”
“Said you shouldn’t have left Kenny Whitney’s house before he told you to. He said he could arrest you for leaving. What a dipshit that guy is. I had a captain like him in the army. Always struttin’ around and actin’ like he was on top of things. Drove a truck straight off a mountainside when were in Italy. Luckily, he was the only one who died.”
“Well, I’m going to see Judge Whitney first. That’s been my plan all day but I can’t get in, she’s so damned busy.”
He looked at me, this old man who had yet to see his fiftieth birthday. “She been any nicer to you lately?”
I smiled. “Not so’s you’d notice.”
“Well, I don’t have to tell you how the Whitneys are.”
“Eastern money,” I said. “Big Eastern money. The only thing I could never figure out is why her branch moved clear the hell out here to Iowa.”
We were passing a supermarket on the edge of town. Dad read some of the prices in the windows out loud. “Gosh, look. Pork steak is thirty-three cents a pound. And bacon is three for a buck. Guy’d have to be a millionaire if he wanted to eat a good steak these days.” As a child of the Depression, Dad watched food prices the way other men watched stock prices. Overseas and dreaming of home, the men of his generation had imagined heaven on earth when they returned home. They hadn’t known that heaven had inflation and bad spells of recession, too. “You know Ross, the guy I work with? You know what he paid for his new Mercury? Three thousand dollars. Hell, we paid that for the house when we bought it.”
“You were going to tell me why the Whitneys came out here.”
“Oh. I forgot. The Whitneys. Well, the judge’s grandfather got caught in a land swindle, one of those deals that’s so complicated it gives you a headache to think about. Anyway, what it came down to was that her grandfather cheated the government and they were going to bring him to trial and everything, but the family chipped in and gave the cash back and got the government to drop the charges. And then they gave him a lot of money and told him to get lost somewhere on the frontier. Iowa was as far as he got.”
I laughed. “So that story she hands out about her grandfather coming out here because he wanted to be a gentleman farmer—”
“A total crock.”
We were in town and headed toward the one-story corner brick building where I have my office around back. Dad pulled into the parking lot and said, “Mom wants to know when you’re coming over for dinner.”
“How about next Tuesday?”
“Spaghetti night. She makes the best.”
Mom did housework with military-style orderliness. For years, Tuesday night had been spaghetti night just as Tuesday day had been housecleaning day, just as Wednesday was Swiss steak night and grocery shopping day. She did all these things on a budget so minuscule I felt like a spendthrift every time I bought a candy bar.
Dad said, “You didn’t mention Kenny.”
I looked over at him. “I don’t think he killed her.”
“That isn’t what I was thinkin’ of.”
“Oh?”
“I was thinkin’ of how he was always beating you up. Ever since you were in kindergarten together. And I could never protect you and I felt like hell about it. I remember the time he broke your glasses and I drove out to their mansion and I was ready to b
e all pissed and everything but when I got inside there I was really intimidated. The way they looked at me and talked to me. It should’ve made me even madder. But it just kind of beat me down. I shoulda stuck up for you a lot better, but I didn’t. All he did, Kenny’s old man, was scratch out this check and hand it to me and tell me to never come out there again. I felt ashamed of myself, I really did, kiddo. I really did.”
I put my hand on his shoulder. “You did the best you could, Dad. I wouldn’t have done any better.”
Then he circled back. “So how come you don’t think he killed her?”
“I’m not sure. Just a feeling, I guess.”
He thought a moment and said, “You know what I shoulda done the day I was out at their mansion?”
“What?”
“I had real muddy shoes on. I took them off at the door. I shoulda tracked mud all the way into his den.”
I laughed at the picture of my small father leaving big mud prints on the mansion floor. It was like watching a really funny Daffy Duck carton.
“Well, kiddo,” he said, glancing at his Timex. “I better head back.”
I watched him pull away, and then I walked over to the imperious Judge Whitney’s chambers, the same Judge Whitney whose grandfather had been a federal land swindler.
9
THE STONE COURTHOUSE HAD been built before there were any Whitneys or Sykeses to fight over who would get the building contract. It was three stories high, with a small golden dome that flew the American flag, and had the feel of an Italian Renaissance castle in an MGM musical with Mario Lanza and Kathryn Grayson. For my taste, it was too fancy by half. Cliff Sykes, Sr., was always hinting he’d like to tear it down and build a new one. He’d go to the opposite extreme. The one he’d build would look like the prefab home developments he was putting up on both ends of town.
Judge Whitney’s chambers were on the second floor. I’d missed the rush. The outer office, which was nicely carpeted wall-to-wall and filled with mahogany furnishings and several large portraits of Whitney menfolk down the decades, was empty. There was an American flag standing in the corner and a portrait of George Washington on the wall next to it. Empty like this, and with paintings of all these dead people, there was a hushed, churchlike air about the place.
The air was soon changed by a beautiful face and a beautiful body, namely one Pamela Forrest. She walked through the door with an aluminum coffeepot in her hand. “Want some?”
“Please.”
“The judge has extra cups in there.”
She wore a white turtleneck sweater and a blue jumper. She looked very smart in what should have been a fairly humdrum outfit. She also smelled great. I always wondered if I wasn’t in love with her perfumes and not her at all.
“Is Frazier still in there?”
She made a face. She was speaking sotto voce.
“He’s very upset.”
“His daughter’s dead. I don’t blame him.”
“He seems to be holding the poor judge responsible for everything Kenny ever did.”
Over the years, the Eastern Whitneys shipped most of their ne’er-do-wells out here to Iowa. Kenny’s father had been a womanizer. He went through three wives and numerous affairs before he finally cracked his car up on Hopkins Road one night. Needless to say, he’d also been a drinker. The Eastern branch of the family had sent him out here originally because he’d plundered a trust fund that was to be used for philanthropy. He ended up routing a lot of the money to some of his European cronies, who sported such dubious titles as prince, duke and viceroy. When the trust fund was nearly depleted, the family put Kenny’s father and Kenny on a plane and dispatched them out here, where the father was to oversee the family’s rather large cattle holdings. He was smart enough to hire a good manager, a former rodeo star whose baptismal name was Tex (presumably after the well-known Saint Tex), and spend the rest of his time chasing ladies. Without a mother—Mom having run off with one of those titled fellows of dubious cachet—Kenny had only his father to raise him, which went a long way to explaining why Kenny had turned out as he had. Kenny’s father had been the drunken twit who’d tossed my dad out of the family manse.
I followed Pamela into the judge’s chambers.
Before I’d even crossed the threshold, two familiar scents obliterated Pamela’s perfume, the odors of Gauloise cigarettes—yes, the ones in the blue packages French people always smoke while they’re talking in subtitles after having sex—and Eiffel Tower brandy. Except for when she’s in court, you seldom see the judge without a Gauloise and a snifter of brandy on her desk.
Esme Anne Whitney was born in New York City a decade or so before the turn of the century. She’d been schooled abroad for the most part—London, Paris, Rome—all before she was fifteen, when her parents died in a train accident. She was then sent out here to live with her oldest brother, a fairly decent guy as Whitneys go, an honest politician and a man who seemed to have some genuine concern for those less lucky than himself. He ended up as a judge and influenced Esme to attend law school at the University of Iowa. She would have preferred Yale or Harvard but her brother had taken sick and she wanted to be around him. Three years out of law school, she used her influence with then President Coolidge to get herself appointed to her ailing brother’s seat on the bench. She has been there ever since.
She’s an elegant woman. She buys all her clothes in New York and it shows. She’s slender to the point of emaciation, Romanesque in the brazen jut of nose and the impudence of eyes and upper lip. Her head would look great in profile stamped on a silver coin. She wears her graying hair cropped close and only enough makeup to lend drama to her already dramatic features. Her speech is as eccentric as her Gauloises, a touch of Kate Hepburn, a dollop of Ayn Rand, whose books fill the glass bookcase behind her massive leather executive chair.
This afternoon, she wore a gray fitted suit, gray hose and black pumps. She had nice legs. She was propped on the edge of her vast desk, the smoke in one hand, the brandy in the other.
She was speaking to an austere man with white hair and a bad complexion. He wore a blue blazer, white shirt, regimental striped tie, gray slacks. On his blazer pocket was a fancy crest. Bob Frazier was the only man in the country Judge Whitney would even consider a social peer. Though he was local money—his father having owned outright as many as four short-line railroads at one time—he’d spent most of his school years in London, ending up at Oxford. I probably would have felt sorrier for him if he hadn’t left his daughter alone for months at a time when she was a young girl. She’d always been a nice kid, but she had a desperate edge. You get that way when you don’t have a parent in your life.
“Bob, for God’s sake,” the judge was saying, “if you want me to say that my nephew, Kenny, was a shit, of course he was a shit. You don’t really expect me to sit here and deny that, do you? But beyond admitting it, what else can I do about it? I’m sorry; I’m very, very sorry it happened.”
“Excuse me,” Pamela said before Frazier could respond. “I brought some more coffee. Fresh.”
“Thank you, dear,” the judge said. “So pour us some fresh and get the hell out of here.”
“Yes, Judge.”
To me, she said, “You’re late.”
I didn’t have time to say anything. I just sat down in the leather chair next to Frazier’s. He briefly scowled in my direction. I’d never liked him but now that his daughter was dead, I felt vaguely guilty about not liking him. While Pamela poured everybody coffee, I sat there and tried hard to work up some good feelings for him. I didn’t have much luck.
“Now, you have some brandy in this one, Bob,” the judge said. Pamela had handed her a cup and saucer. The judge picked up the brandy bottle and poured in a good shot and handed the cup to Bob. The judge dispensed brandy-and-coffee the way priests dispensed communion.
“It’s too early,” Frazier said.
“The hell if it is,” the judge said. “Now hold your cup out and quit being a baby.”<
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“Damn it, Esme, there’s never any arguing with you, is there?” Frazier said, but he held his cup out. The judge gave him a bracing shot. No matter how strong your resolve was, the judge would triumph.
“What you need to do,” the judge said, “as soon as the funeral is over is get the hell out of here. And I mean far away. Have you ever been to Bermuda?”
“Once. They were having some kind of political trouble there. And some kind of big bug bit my girlfriend on the ass. Pardon my French.”
“Which girlfriend?”
“Darla.”
“Did the bug get poisoned?” the judge asked sweetly.
“She never liked you any better than you liked her,” Frazier said. Then he made a fist. And his eyes shone with tears. “My daughter was a good, sweet girl and that son of a bitch completely corrupted her. Completely.”
On the words “good, sweet girl,” the judge looked at me and rolled her eyes. His daughter, Susan, whom I’d liked, probably hadn’t been an ideal girl. She slept around a lot and had a few minor fracases with Sykes’ hillbilly gestapo. But she was a sweet and tender and honest girl, giving a lot of free hours to the hospital and to one of the local vets. She was like a lot of local people, she saw helping out as part of the price you paid for the privilege of living here.
Frazier suddenly set his cup down and half-leaped to his feet. He walked over to the regal red drapes keeping out the afternoon sun. He parted the drapes and looked out. The sun exposed the rough acne of his face. Mid-fifties, and his complexion had never cleared up. But somehow, with the white hair and the sharply pointed nose, the affliction only enhanced his predatory air.
