Harlot's Moon

by Edward Gorman

"And you think he followed you today?"

  "Yes. In fact, I know he did. I think I lost him but it was only about five or six blocks ago."

  "Would this have anything to do with Father Daly?"

  Phil had great timing.

  "White wine for the lady, white wine for the gentleman," he said, setting down our drinks. "And another cup of coffee, too."

  Every once in a while I catch myself being the Grinch. I had no right to be irritated with Phil. He was pleasant and professional and he obviously worked damned hard for his money.

  "Thanks, Phil," I said when he was done.

  "You're most welcome," he said as he turned to walk away.

  Eleanor sipped her wine. She had long, elegant fingers. Every once in a while you're in the presence of a woman who nudges you off your normal orbit. You feel yourself drawn into her orbit and there's nothing you can do about it.

  "You were going to tell me about Father Daly."

  She sighed. "It sounds pretty low-rent."

  "That's all right."

  "One more sip of wine." She had a sad crushing smile. "I come from a family of alcoholics. I'm always afraid that's how I'll end up some day." She looked at me with eyes clear as first light. "But you want to know about Father Daly and me."

  A brief sigh. "Bob and I were having some problems. This was two years ago. I went to a therapist but I just didn't care for her all that much. She wanted to run my life and I resented it. Anyway, I had a friend who was seeing Father Daly. She was very happy with him. He seemed to have done her a lot of good. He was a very good therapist, he really was. No platitudes, no stupid little theories. He saw my faults and Bob's faults very clearly. And then he started falling in love with me."

  "Father Daly?"

  "Uh-huh. I mean, every session, he'd find some way to touch me."

  "You mean sexually?"

  "That's what it was all about. At first I was kind of scared, and then I was kind of flattered. And then one day, I realized that I was attracted to him, too. Not as strongly as he was to me — but there was a definite attraction there."

  "Your husband didn't sense anything between you and Father Daly?"

  "Not then. There wasn't anything to sense, for one thing. It was sort of like puppy love. At least for me. He was a very good-looking man and very polished, and very witty. He made me laugh. He even told me an Andrew Marvell line about that. You know, the poet?"

  "Yes."

  "’The maid who laughs is half taken,’ he said to me one day. And I knew he was talking about our relationship."

  "Did you stop seeing him?"

  "Yes. For about three months. He'd call several times a week. He was — obsessed with me, I think."

  "How were things going at home?"

  "Not all that well." She had some more wine. "Bob was still angry with me. He sensed that our marriage would never be the way it once had been."

  "Why not?"

  "He was unfaithful to me for years. No serious affairs, nothing like that. But there were always these little dollies he was sneaking off with. A lot of my friends' husbands are like that, but the women don't seem to care all that much. Boys will be boys, that sort of thing. But it took its toll on me. He'd come home drunk and smelling of them and finally it killed something inside me. I'd had a very unhappy affair in college. It took me two years to get over it. That was when I met Bob.

  "He was a year younger than me but he was a big football star — he set a Big Ten rushing record that year — and I saw him as this magical man. He was going to make things all better for me. We got married as soon as he graduated from college. And I started having babies right away. Three daughters in five years. That's when Bob began to drift away. I was at home barefoot and pregnant and he was out chasing after his little dollies. It's a pretty typical middle-class story, at least for my generation. My daughters would never put up with it, thank God. They're much tougher than my generation was."

  "Ready to see menus?" Phil said.

  We saw menus. She had the seafood special, I had the seafood special.

  "I'm sorry I'm talking so much," she said, after Phil left.

  "That's why we're here. To talk."

  "But I must admit, it feels good."

  "So you started seeing Father Daly again?"

  "Yes. About three months ago. Bob had begun to sense that I really didn't love him anymore, and he was looking for a reason. He became paranoid — very suspicious. That's when he started following me. Sometimes I'd even hear him pick up the extension phone when I was talking with one of my girlfriends."

  "He didn't know about Father Daly?"

  "Oh, he knew I was seeing him in a professional capacity but I don't think he knew — how Father Daly felt about me." She saw him before I did. She said, "Oh, God."

  "What?"

  Suddenly husband Bob was at the table, yanking me to my feet with my necktie. And suddenly husband Bob was bellowing for wife Ellie to get the hell out of here and get the hell back home where she belonged.

  And suddenly Phil, poor dumb Phil, made the mistake of coming over and saying, "Is everything all right?"

  Bob punched him, hard enough to draw blood from one side of his nose.

  Two thoughts came to me — one, that good old Bob would probably get around to punching me very soon, too — and two, that I was now the most-watched person in the entire restaurant. Except perhaps for husband Bob.

  I brought my left foot up and stomped on his instep. In his first moment of pain, I brought my right knee up and caught him squarely in the groin.

  His body wasn't sure what to do. So much sharp pain so quickly.

  He stood there and looked at me, all very executive in his three-piece blue business suit, and then he started to fold in half, giving way to the pain.

  "Here, Phil," I said, grabbing the napkin and putting it to his nose. "Go put some cold water on it."

  By now, Ellie had fled the restaurant. The last I'd seen of her was her back.

  "You sonofabitch," Bob said as he began to compose himself. "You stay away from her. In case you hadn't noticed, she's a married woman." He was still grimacing from the pain.

  I took two twenties from my wallet and laid them down next to my plate.

  "I owe you one, asshole," he said as I started to walk away from the table. "And believe me, I'm going to pay you back." By now, the other diners had given up their furtive looks.

  They'd quit eating entirely and were watching us openly, boldly, the way they'd watch a soap opera.

  "And you're supposed to be helping with the murder investigation," he said. "So why the hell aren't you out trying to find the killer instead of hitting on my wife?"

  I've always been self-conscious in front of groups. And I'd never felt more self-conscious than in front of this particular group.

  I looked straight ahead at the door and then started walking toward it as fast as I could.

  Only when I got outside, away from all the curious eyes, did I realize that I hadn't asked Ellie Wilson the most important question of all.

  What the hell had her earring been doing in Father Daly's motel room last night?

  In my hurry to leave the apartment this morning, I'd forgotten some papers I needed for the law office. When I stopped by my place, Felice's Jaguar was parked in the lot.

  I expected to hear voices when I opened the apartment door, but I heard nothing.

  "Hello?" I said. "Hello?"

  Felice suddenly appeared in the hallway, holding a shushing finger to her lips.

  "What's the matter?" I said.

  She shook her lovely head and whispered, "I just got him to sleep."

  "Is something wrong with him?"

  She cocked her head back and glared at me. "No, Jack, everything is just peachy with him. He only has a case of terminal lung cancer is all."

  "You know god-damned well what I meant," I said. "Did something happen?"

  She sighed. Shook her head again. She continued to whisper. "We went shopping. B
ut all of a sudden he really started hacking and he got so tired he had to sit down. He had to sit there for an hour before he could even walk a little bit. It took me another twenty minutes to get him in the car. I got him home and called the hospital. A nurse told me that this was typical of lung cancer, getting so tired and everything, and that I should put him to bed."

  Now it was my turn to glare. "You're not as devious as you think."

  "Boy, that doesn't sound too paranoid, Robert. What the hell's that supposed to mean?"

  "It means that I still don't like the sonofabitch. I've been thinking about it and I don't want him staying here."

  "He doesn't have any money, Robert."

  "Yeah — and you know why he doesn't have any money? Because he drank it all up with his advertising buddies, that's why." I moved closer to her. "He's not going to stay here, Felice."

  "Maybe I could fix him up a place in the parking lot. You know, by the dumpster or something. Would that make you happy?"

  "You won't have to. I'm going to find him a nursing home and I'm going to pick up the tab and that's the last I want to see of the sonofabitch. You can visit him if you want to but don't expect me to go along."

  "I don't want to see you right now, Robert. I can't believe you're acting like this."

  "Well, right now, I don't particularly want to see you either," I said, and walked over to the front door.

  "Maybe I'll get a place for me and Vic to stay," she said.

  "Fine by me."

  "'Fine by me.’ You should see yourself, Robert. You look like a hateful little boy right at this moment."

  "Well, maybe that's what I am, Felice. Maybe that's my true nature."

  And with that, I left my apartment.

  I was two blocks away before I realized that I hadn't picked up the papers I needed for the office.

  But there was no way I was going to go another couple of rounds with Felice.

  Not right now, anyway.

  As I drove, and tried to concentrate on the road, I felt isolated and very, very sorry for myself.

  Vic shows up and displaces me from my own apartment.

  I no longer had a home.

  At least, that was how I felt.

  Then my cell phone rang.

  I picked up.

  "I love you, Robert," she said.

  "Who is this?"

  "Very funny."

  I sighed. "I'm sorry I was such a jerk."

  "I was a jerk, too. I just feel sorry for him, Robert."

  "Yeah."

  "But now I feel I'm being disloyal to you."

  "We'll work it out."

  "I really do love you."

  I smiled. "I really do love you, too."

  PART THREE

  POLICE DEPARTMENT

  Michael James Grady

  Age: 34

  Race: Caucasian

  Occupation: High School Teacher

  Marital Status: M

  Military Service: None

  Grady: You're making this a lot worse than it is. I mean, right now there's all this politically correct bullshit on the subject . . . but the fact is, you look at any society you want to name . . . and it happens in every one of them. Now I'll admit, the time I accidentally pushed her down the stairs . . . well, I got carried away. I mean, I certainly didn't plan to break her arm. It just happened. I gave her a little push and . . . and the same for the time she miscarried. I was pretty drunk and I gave her a shove. I meant to shove her shoulder . . . but I guess I must have hit her stomach . . . and hit it pretty hard. I have to admit, it scared the shit out of me. She's been talking about making me see this counselor, but she knows if she pushes that particular line any more, I'm out the door. Teachers have enough grief to contend with these days . . . rumors start spreading that I'm a quote, unquote, wife beater . . . I'll be out of a job. And you can bet your ass on that.

  Michael Grady

  Wakes up in the morning and of course it's the first thing he remembers. What he did last night.

  In the upper bunk, his college roomie is, as usual, snoring his ass off. Roomie is going to flunk out of the university here if he doesn't get his ass in gear.

  Puts one foot then the other on the floor and then stands up. The room is a pit. Grady is reasonably clean and neat but McGrath is a pig. God, how can anybody who came from a family as wealthy as McGrath's stand to live this way?

  Pizza boxes all over the floor, dirty underwear dangling off the arms of chairs, Pepsi bottles filled with cigarette butts. God.

  The hangover hits him now full force.

  He feels dehydrated and sick to his stomach.

  And the memories keep coming back.

  God, did it really happen?

  Did he really do it?

  He stumbles toward the john, his foot brushing against a piece of cold pizza on the floor. It looks like chunky barf. The sight of it makes him think maybe he's going to barf.

  He pisses, rocking on his heels as he does so. He keeps trying to will images of last night from his mind. But they won't go away.

  He did it again, didn't he?

  After all her warnings.

  After all their arguments.

  He went and did it again.

  If only she hadn't . . .

  He stumbles back out of the john to the little refrigerator McGrath keeps in the corner, right under the Saturday Night Fever poster.

  They have this running battle, Grady and McGrath. Grady thinks John Travolta is the ultimate nerd. McGrath not only thinks otherwise . . . he even dresses like Travolta . . . the three-piece white suit and everything. It is 1979 and Travolta is God.

  The thing is, John Travolta is this tall, skinny, handsome, street-wise guy.

  Todd McGrath, on the other hand, is this short (5"5'), round (220 pounds), pimpled farm kid whose parents just happen to be filthy rich.

  When he bends over to open the refrigerator door, some invisible somebody stabs a butcher knife right into the middle of his forehead.

  The headache is so bad he's literally blinded.

  He has to put a hand flat against the wall to keep from falling over.

  God Almighty, he really did it last night.

  Finally he's able to lean down and grab a can of Pepsi from the refrigerator.

  He takes the Pepsi and the phone into the bathroom. The phone has an extra long cord. Whenever they want to talk in private, they take the phone into the john. Nothing like a toilet to inspire romance.

  Confirm that it really happened. That's what he needs to do. And if it did really happen, maybe it wasn't as bad as he thinks.

  Maybe it was just a little lover's spat and not a big deal at all.

  He puts the phone on the edge of the sink and then starts gunning the Pepsi.

  As he drinks, he becomes aware of the smell of vomit.

  Maybe he barfed last night and doesn't remember. Or maybe McGrath barfed. McGrath always barfs. He mixes beer and wine and, man, that'll make you sicker than anything.

  He wishes he'd brought two Pepsis in with him. He's halfway done with this one and he's still dehydrated.

  He turns to the phone and dials. His whole right arm is trembling.

  Maybe it was worse than he remembers.

  What if he really hurt her . . .?

  Her bitch roommate answers. Molly and Grady have this mutual loathing for each other. She thinks that Tina should have dumped Grady long ago and Grady thinks somebody should have drowned Molly long ago.

  "Is Tina there?"

  "It's early."

  "That isn't what I asked you. I asked you if she was there."

  "You sonofabitch. You did it to her again, didn't you?"

  "It's none of your fucking business."

  So it really did happen after all . . .

  "One of these times she's going to call the police. And if she doesn't, maybe I will."

  "Put her on the phone."

  "You prick."

  She lets the receiver drop to the desk. It bangs hard,
the sudden sharp sound only increasing his headache.

  Then she's back: "She doesn't want to talk to you."

  "Bullshit. That's what you told her to say."

  "Look, Michael. She doesn't want to talk to you, all right? Those are her words, not mine."

  "Tell her if she doesn't talk to me, then I'll come over."

  "You bastard."

  Once again, the phone is dropped. Once again, a laser of pain shoots into his ear, and then angles up into the front of his head.

  Then: "Hello."

  He gets all corny inside. Can't help it. Just hearing her voice after they've had a terrible fight . . . well, her voice just melts him.

  "I'm sorry about last night."

  "It's over, Michael."

  "Oh God, Tina, we just had a little fight."

  "That isn't what the doctor told me."

  "Doctor? What the hell are you talking about?"

  A pause. "After you dropped me off last night, Molly had to take me to the emergency room. They did X-rays. You gave me a concussion last night, Michael. When you hit me in the head those times."

  Now the silence belongs to him. Then, finally: "God, I didn't hit you that hard."

  "Well, you figure it out, Michael. You hit me in the head five times with your fist and now I have a concussion. That sounds pretty hard to me."

  "But Tina—"

  "None of your bullshit, Michael. It's over." He's never heard her like this. So cold. So self-confident. Usually, after he hits her, what she does is cry and say that maybe they shouldn't see each other anymore but they always go back.

  This time, though . . .

  "What I should do is go to the police."

  "I love you, Tina."

  "Molly says I could press charges. She's in pre-law, so she knows what she's talking about."

  "I'll never do it again, I promise."

  "I wasn't even looking at him. That's what really pisses me off about this whole thing. You kept saying I was flirting with this guy at the bar but I couldn't even see anybody that far away, Michael. I didn't have my glasses on and I hadn't worn my contacts. I couldn't even see this guy you said I was flirting with."

  "I'll be better, Tina. I promise. I honest-to-God promise."

  "You'll have to be better with somebody else, Michael. I'm not going to see you anymore. I'll have somebody bring all your stuff by."