by Ed Gorman
An easy, clean victory for Carl.
Except it wasn’t. Because the kid picked himself up and proceeded to beat the holy hell out of Carl, thus ending my personal myth of age mattering in a fight.
Now here was Hannity, a college senior probably four years younger, just about ready to take me apart. Age didn’t matter, my badge didn’t matter, whatever status I had as an associate of Judge Whitney’s didn’t matter.
He was closing in on me and he had every right to think—to know—that I was afraid of him.
He was tough, but he wasn’t subtle. He spent too much time bringing his left hand up. In those seconds I was able to plant the tip of my shoe right in his crotch.
I had the extreme pleasure of watching him fall to the ground, clutch his crotch, and cry out in pain.
“You son of a bitch,” he said. “I’m gonna tell my dad.”
But Dad was already running toward us. He obviously had a keen paternal ear. He’d heard his son’s cry.
As soon as he saw his son on the ground, he let out a yelp that combined fear and rage in equal parts.
But as he leaned down to help his son to his feet, Hannity started the painful climb on his own. “I don’t need any help.”
“What’s going on here, Nick?” Bill Hannity said.
“Ask that asshole over there.”
He looked over at me. He was a beefier version of his beefy son, a financial consultant in Cedar Rapids who tended to dress in California casual as often as possible: sport shirt, custom-fit slacks, and a tan collected from visits to three or four sunny climes a year.
He was also much smoother than his son. “Are you beating up children now, McCain?”
There were two warring groups at the town’s lone country club. One was run by the judge, the other by him.
“Yeah, I usually kick the shit out of ten-year-olds a couple times a week.”
Now that Junior was on his feet, Bill said, “Are you all right, Nick?”
“He really hurt me, Dad.”
Back to me: “What the hell do you think you’re doing, McCain?”
I shrugged: “It was either that or let him take me apart. He started coming at me. I didn’t have a lot of choices.”
“He’s just a college kid.”
“Yeah, and he’s got forty pounds on me and is one of the biggest bullies in town. As you might have guessed, since he’s been in court four or five times on assault charges.”
Nick, even though he was still wincing from time to time, started toward me. But my words had cooled Bill off at least temporarily.
“What are you doing on my property?”
“Investigating. I’m licensed, you’ll remember.”
“Damned Esme.” He shook his sleek gray head. “Investigating what, may I ask?”
“Trying to find out if your son was involved in the murders of the two men last night.”
“That colored boy? My God, McCain, what the hell would my son have to do with that?”
“He has a history of harassing Leeds.”
“You’re a liar. And besides, I was with my girlfriend Nancy Adams last night.” Nick started at me again. Bill put a formidable restraining arm across his son’s chest.
“Be quiet, Nick. What’re you talking about, McCain?”
I told him what Lucy had told me, about how his son and Rob Anderson had treated Leeds on several occasions.
“He’s lying, Dad.”
“There’s a witness,” I said.
“Nick wouldn’t do anything like that. He’s got a temper but—”
“Tell that to Lucy Williams. She knows better.”
“That bitch,” Nick said.
Bill Hannity’s expression changed. He seemed to consider the possibility, for the first time, that maybe something was going on here.
“Go in the house, Nick.”
“Dad, this little jerk kicked me in the crotch.”
“In the house, Nick. Now.”
His quiet authority impressed me. He’d handled himself pretty well, considering that he’d found his son writhing on the driveway.
Nick gave me the big bad glare and muttered all the usual curses just loudly enough that I could hear them. But then he turned and hobbled his way back to the house. I hadn’t meant to kick him that hard but I probably wasn’t going to cry myself to sleep about it.
Bill Hannity took a cigarette from the pack of Camels in his blue sport shirt, flamed it with a golden shaft of expensive lighter, and said, “Is he really in trouble?”
“Right now it’s hard to say.”
He made a face. “That damned temper of his. I suppose I was just as bad when I was his age. But you didn’t have to kick him that hard.”
“He didn’t have to charge me, either.”
He took a drag off his cigarette and blew the smoke up toward the clean nuggets of stars. This was the air of privilege up here, the warmth and safety of the lights in the wide windows of the ranch house, the expensive cars on the drive, and again the swagger of rich-people laughter fluttering up into the sky like sleek golden birds.
“I’ll talk to him. Do I need a lawyer yet?”
“See what Nick says first.”
He arced his cigarette into the air with all the finesse of a street-corner punk. A meteor shower erupted when cigarette met lawn.
He put his hand to his head and sighed. “A white girl who comes from a good family going out with a colored boy. It had to be trouble. It had to be.”
He didn’t shake my hand but he chucked me on the arm and said, “Thanks for being honest with me, McCain.”
Then he went back inside with his own class of people.
NINE
THERE’S A SMALL CAFE half a block from the courthouse that, at night anyway, resembles the cafe made famous by Edward Hopper. You rarely see more than two people at the counter and I don’t recall ever seeing anybody occupy any of the four booths. The man in the white T-shirt and apron behind the counter speaks a language nobody’s ever quite been able to identify. And the faded posters on the walls advertise obscure singers from the ’30s who appeared at a dance hall closed down in the late ’40s.
I go there sometimes when I can’t sleep and I can’t even tell you why. The old songs on the jukebox, the silent people sipping coffee at the counter, the counterman talking angrily on the phone in that strange language—it’s our own little corner of the Twilight Zone.
Tonight, though, I got a surprise. Not only were there at least six people at the counter, there was also somebody occupying one of the booths. And that was the second surprise. The occupant was none other than the new district attorney, Jane Sykes.
She wore a white silk blouse and a navy blue suit. With her golden hair swept back into a chignon and a cigarette burning in the ashtray, she had a certain chic that didn’t get in the way of her melancholy aura.
And there was yet another surprise. When I got to her booth, carrying the cup of coffee I’d bought, I saw the title of the book she was reading: The Stranger by Albert Camus.
“Miss Sykes.”
An expression of irritation drew her chic face tight. She’d been engrossed in the book.
“Yes?” Then: “Oh.” Then a long and silken hand angled up toward me. I took it and we shook. “You’re Sam McCain.”
“Yes.”
“Please. Sit down.”
“Looks as if I’ve dragged you away from your reading.”
“You did.” The smile was a beam that brought peace and wisdom to the entire universe. “But sit down and we’ll talk lawyer stuff.”
“You always work this late?” I said as I sat down.
“My first eight years were in the Cook County office. You’ve heard of Chicago? Seven days of twelve hours a day sometimes. This is nice so far. Only a couple of those twelve-hour days.” She raised her cup as if in a toast. “Plus the coffee’s better here.”
“You actually like this place?”
“You know who Edward Hopper is?”
“I don’t know much about art but I had a husband who did. And there was a traveling Hopper show at the Art Institute for a month. I went every day. It was like a religious experience.”
“Same way here.”
“He explained something to me—about myself.” She smiled that smile again. “The trouble is I can’t articulate it, what he explained to me. Not even to myself.”
I must have looked transfixed. I sure felt that way.
“Want me to read your mind, Sam?”
“My mind?”
“Yes, I’m pretty sure you have one.” She tapped a long, red-tipped finger against her perfect forehead. “Want me to read it?”
“Uh, sure.”
“You’re thinking how could anybody with the name Sykes know anything about Edward Hopper.”
“Hey, c’mon.” But I knew I was flushing. Of course I’d had that thought two or three times since sitting down here. “Why would I think anything like that?”
“Because my family has its share of dim bulbs, as I’ll admit. Not to mention criminals. But they’re not stupid, they’re just uneducated. And they’re uneducated because they’re too lazy to learn. They look at ‘book learning,’ as they call it, as effete and dull. The women as well as the men, unfortunately.” She stubbed out a Viceroy and tamped another one from her pack. “So let’s be clear about this. I’m well aware of my family’s faults. That’s why my dad fled to Chicago as soon as he could. He wanted to be educated. But the big war got in his way and he got wounded in such a way that he has these terrible memory lapses. But he made sure that I did everything he couldn’t do.”
“You must be something in court. You just spoke everything in perfect sentences.”
“I wasn’t trying to dazzle you, Sam. I was trying to make a point. You and I will be bumping up against each other in a lot of different situations. I know you work for the judge and you know I’m a Sykes, but that’s no reason we can’t be friends. You know, in Chicago, lawyers for the prosecution and lawyers for the defense can actually be friends.” She had an easy touch with wry comments.
“And in a small town, I like the idea of having a friend who knows who Edward Hopper is. But—” She folded her hands on the table and looked at me directly. This particular gray-eyed gaze had to be a killer in court. “But whatever your feelings about any of the Sykeses, including Clifford, I want you to keep them to yourself. I’m well aware of his shortcomings, and one of my first priorities is to straighten out the police department. But he’s my flesh and blood and I know a side of him you don’t. So, no Cliff jokes, no Cliff jibes. If he does something that conflicts with the law, let me know and I’ll take care of it. Otherwise, the subject of Clifford is off-limits. All right?”
“Breathtaking. God, I’m afraid to go up against you in court.”
“I’m serious about it, Sam.”
“I know you are. But that didn’t take anything away from the presentation.”
She sat back in the booth. Yawned. Covered her mouth with that long, graceful hand. “Sorry. I guess I’m not as young as I used to be.”
“Ancient.”
“Thirty-one next month.” Thank God the smile came back. “That’s almost five years older than you.”
“How’d you know that?”
“You think I didn’t research every attorney in the county when I came out here?”
“Do I get to research you?”
“Be my guest. You know how old I am. My husband divorced me four years ago because of all the hours I put in and because I didn’t want children. Now I think maybe I would like to have a child, but the problem is I haven’t met anybody I’d like to get serious with, let alone get married to. As for my time in the DA’s office, I held the highest position ever held by a woman in the Cook County legal establishment. I’m slim but it’s becoming a battle to stay that way. And of all the lawyers in town, you’re the one most interesting to me.”
She tapped the finger where a wedding ring had once resided. “You’re single. That means you can show me the town.”
“Such as it is.”
“Such as it is.”
Then, without warning, she was gathering up her materials and sweeping herself out of the booth. “Want to walk me to my hotel? I haven’t found a place yet.”
“Sure.”
I hadn’t walked a woman home in some time. And I liked it.
“This must be quite a change from Chicago.”
“It is. But I’m enjoying it. I’ll like it even better when I’m moved in somewhere.”
As we walked I felt connected again. Girl-connected with all its rich erotic promise.
And then we were standing in front of the hotel, three wide steps up to a pair of revolving doors and a surprisingly comely interior.
She extended her hand and we shook. “Thanks, Sam. I’ve really enjoyed meeting you.”
And then she was gone. I tumbled down into the womanless darkness that had been my home since Mary had found out that she couldn’t marry me. Her husband Wes, who’d left her for another woman, had gotten Mary pregnant with their third child, unbeknownst to both of them. Since Wes had gotten dumped by his new girlfriend, he saw the wisdom of returning to Mary. She didn’t believe in abortion. She would have the baby—had already had the baby girl, in fact—and Mary and Wes would try again to save their marriage.
I went for a long, melancholy ride in my ragtop, and then I went home to feed the cats.
TEN
“I PLAY A PICKLE, SAM,” Samantha said on the other end of the phone. “A network commercial, too. The residuals should be really good.”
Samantha, a very appealing copper-haired young woman from right here in Black River Falls, had been in Los Angeles. Couple of years older than me, a small legal infraction known as shoplifting being the way we’d met, she finally decided that maybe “everybody” was right, she should try Hollywood before it was too late. She did the impossible. She got me to keep her three cats for her, Tasha, Crystal, and Tess. I was previously a catdisliker. Not hater. But disliker.
Until I got her cats. And they became my cats by default.
She checks in three or four times a year, usually when she has news of a commercial or a bit part in a movie or a TV show or a stage play. I’ve never summoned the nerve to recommend to her one of my three or four favorite novels, They Shoot Horses, Don’t They? by Horace McCoy. It’s the most scathing of all the Hollywood novels about people who trek out there filled with Cinemascope dreams about the gilded life that will be theirs.
To date, according to her count, she’s had more than a dozen jobs, slept with three bona fide movie stars, endured two failed marriages, one miscarriage and two abortions, and has spent a good deal of her modest income seeing a shrink who has convinced her that the sex they have is a vital part of the therapeutic process, something she admitted while stoned on marijuana and wine.
She checks in on her cats the way a really bad parent would check in on children she never sees, all effusive stagecraft about how much she misses them, thinks about them, even dreams about them. I’m sort of the adoptive cat parent now. Or the cat nanny.
After Samantha and I said our good-byes, I took off my clothes, grabbed a beer from the fridge, turned on the TV just for noise, and then saw the piece of paper by the door. I went over and picked it up and brought it back to the couch.
The cats read it with me, Tasha in my lap, Crystal and Tess on the back of the couch, reading over my shoulder.
Sam—
I saw something last night that might have something to do with those murders. I’m actually kind of scared about it. That’s why I stopped by. I’m staying at a girlfriend’s trailer tonight. Her number is 407-5411. I’d appreciate a call. Don’t worry how late it is.
Rachael Todd
A client of mine in a spooky divorce. A husband so abusive he’d once chased her through the woods with a fire ax. For which
he is still serving some well-deserved time.
A Knolls kid, like me, Rachael had dropped out of school in tenth grade and taken up with the Road Devils, some local bikers who fashioned themselves after the Hell’s Angels. At first they’d been poor imitations. But by now they were serious criminals: car theft (the cars driven to Chicago where they were repainted and their registration numbers filed off, sold at auction to used-car lots), arson-for-hire, and numerous charges of assault and battery. Judge Whitney had sent a few of them up, in fact.
Rachael wasn’t especially attractive physically except for her enormous breasts. I’d always felt sorry for her. Nobody’d ever paid her any attention until her breasts sprouted, and then she was reduced to something of a joke by boys and girls alike. I suppose hanging out with the bikers gave her the sense of belonging she’d never found at school.
I’d lost touch with her since the divorce decree two years ago, though I wondered about her occasionally. She’d always be one of those sad-eyed kids nobody at school had ever bothered to bestow humanity on.
I dialed the number. One thing she wasn’t was a hysteric. If she thought she’d seen something, she’d seen something.
No answer.
I dialed and redialed right up to when the yawning finally overcame me and I turned off the TV and went to bed.
It was just before 6:30 the next morning when the clock radio next to my bed came on with the news that a body identified as that of Rachael Todd had been found on the highway, the victim of an apparent hit-and-run.
PART TWO
ELEVEN
WHENEVER I WANT TO find out what I really think about something, I go to the barbershop, the same barbershop I’ve been going to since my mom quit cutting my hair when I turned three. The two men who ran the shop since the 1920s have retired now, but the other characters are pretty much the same.
The men who collect here, whether they need a haircut or not, are a good cross-section of small-town folks: farmers, blue-collar workers, merchants, a newspaperman or two, and a fair number of retirees.
