by Ed Gorman
"You look wonderful."
"Would I sound vain if I said I know I did?"
"Not at all."
"For somebody eighty-three I look damn wonderful, if you'll pardon my French."
So this was "Benito." I had no doubt, just looking at her, that the stories about her were true. But they left out one of the good parts. "Benito" was a charmer.
"You know what I did this afternoon? Something very foolish."
"What's that?"
"Do you remember a hillbilly comedienne named Judy Canova?"
"Vaguely."
"She made a lot of very cheap movies back in the forties and early fifties. Anyway, Hughton used to own some coal mines down South, and she was very popular there. So this afternoon I saw in the cable guide that one of her movies was being shown, and I watched it. I'd hoped it would bring back memories of my husband and I. We always had such great times down South. But you know what?"
"What?"
"It was a terrible, terrible movie. It was like watching a high school play."
I smiled. "I'm sorry."
"Oh, don't be sorry. It was a good lesson for me." She paused. "Most things are best just before or long after they've happened. Everything else is something of a disappointment, I'm afraid."
"I guess I'd have to agree with that."
She giggled again. "Good. You look like an intelligent man." She angled a knotty hand to a nearby stand. "There's Scotch in there if you'd like some. I keep it on hand for all my gentleman callers." She smiled. "'Gentleman callers.' Tennessee Williams used that in The Glass Menagerie. I met him several times. Too bad he was a homosexual. He was quite charming. But then I've always liked the theater and theater people, and so did my late husband. That's why we've spent millions on the theater downstairs, bringing in actors who would never have dreamed of coming to the Midwest otherwise. Our theater is my obsession and was Hughton's most treasured possession." For half of her little speech, she looked up at the collage of photographs; for the second half she watched my face. I didn't know what she was looking for, and it made me self-conscious. "And now something terrible's happened to our theater, hasn't it, Mr. Dwyer?"
"I'm afraid it has."
"Scandal. The first in our thirty-five-year history." Her shiny eyes hardened the way they had with the servant. Then she said, "I phoned the police today. I wanted all the background I could get on the murder. I spoke with a Detective Edelman. I hope you don't mind, but because the press reports said that you were the last one to see Stephen Wade, I asked Detective Edelman what he thought of you. Edelman is a Jewish name, isn't it?"
"In his case it is."
"I have nothing but respect for most of the Jewish people I know," she said. "And I'm sure I would feel just the same about Detective Edelman if we ever met in person. He was charming on the phone. Very patient with me. I'm an old lady and it couldn't have been much fun for him." She paused again, touching her tiny hand to her throat, as if trying to draw a deep breath. She looked like a dying kewpie doll. "He told me you don't think Stephen Wade is guilty," she said.
"That's right."
"You have proof of that?"
"Not yet."
"You really don't think he's guilty?"
"No, I don't."
"Then what are you going to do about it?"
"I'm not sure yet."
"I've drawn a check for you. One thousand dollars."
"For what?"
"To prove that Stephen Wade isn't guilty. To prove that nobody associated with the theater is guilty."
Finally I understood why she'd called me there, what she hoped to get out of our meeting. She wanted me to prove that the theater and its people were blameless in the murder of Michael Reeves.
"He was an unsavory sort, wasn't he?"
"I'm not sure who you mean, Mrs. Bridges."
"Michael Reeves, of course. He had far too many girlfriends, and he spent too much time working with those convicts." She fixed her eyes on me. "You'll accept my check?"
I shrugged. "I guess I'd just as soon you kept it. If I, turn something up then you can give me something as a reward."
"Detective Edelman said you'd probably react that way. He said that all in all you were a very competent policeman."
"I was all right. Nothing special, really."
She smiled and held out her hand. I took it. Her eyes sparkled again. "I'm afraid at my age, I don't have my seductive powers anymore. In my youth I was very good at getting my way." She put her other hand on top of mine. "Won't you help me, Mr. Dwyer?"
"Your seductive powers aren't bad at all, Mrs. Bridges. Not at all."
A doorbell sounded discreetly. She touched a button next to her bed. The door opened. David Ashton came in. The change in her expression was so abrupt that it bordered on the comic. "Yes?" she said. "Can't you see I'm busy?"
"I'm sorry, Lenora." He was embarrassed in front of me. Nobody likes being talked to that way. Nobody should. She was a different woman now. I felt sorry for Ashton. He was a wimp, but there are worse things to be.
"So what is it you want?"
He cleared his throat. She'd humiliated him so much that he could hardly speak. "You said to keep you informed about Wade."
"Yes. What about him?"
"There was a bulletin on television just now. They think he was spotted in a supermarket about half an hour ago."
"Is that all?"
"Yes."
"Then good-bye, David."
"Yes, Mother."
He left as quickly as he could.
She said, "I don't suppose that was very nice."
"I'd agree with that."
"You sound angry."
"Nobody should be treated that way."
"I've been very good to David. Do you know his background?"
"Right now I don't particularly give a damn about his background."
"His father worked for Hughton as a chauffeur. David isn't the namby-pamby he pretends to be. I saw him angry one time that I especially remember. A director was very insulting to a set designer and David grabbed the man and threw him, literally threw him, against the wall. He's so good-looking that you overlook the fact that he keeps himself in great shape and is very strong.
"And for all his blandness, he's not without wiles. Don't forget that he spent many years as an actor and is capable of giving very good performances." She paused a moment, looking down some invisible tunnel at the past. "Just after my daughter Sylvia had one of her breakdowns, David pretended to befriend her. What he really meant to do was get her pregnant. Which is exactly what he did. Unfortunately, my husband and I were out of the country and didn't know what was going on. So she gave birth to Evelyn. David got rich." She consulted the old photographs again. "Hughton was so much against him that he wanted to fly Sylvia to Mexico for an abortion, but her psychiatrist—a family friend named Dr. Kern—was against it. He was afraid that losing the child would only drive Sylvia deeper into schizophrenia."
"He still doesn't deserve that kind of treatment."
"You're from his background, I suspect. Blue-collar?"
"My father worked in a factory."
She met my angry gaze. "It may surprise you, Mr. Dwyer, but my father was a groundsman."
"That does surprise me."
"I'm not a snob, Mr. Dwyer. But I don't like underhanded men. Which is what David is."
I checked my watch. "I need to be going, Mrs. Bridges."
She put out her hand again. This time I hesitated. Then I took it. "Don't decide yet."
"Don't decide what yet?" I asked.
"Whether you like me or not. You need more time."
Her game-playing had started to have some appeal again.
"All right. I'll give it a few days."
"I wish you'd take that check."
"We'll talk about it if I accomplish something. Okay?"
She looked at me and laughed. "Now you're the kind of man I wish had married into my family. Exactly the kind of man."
Five min
utes later I was boarding the elevator. "That's a lot of flowers," I said to the man in the blue jumpsuit. "She must really like them."
"It's her disease." he said. "She needs them to cover the odor."
It was something I wish he hadn't told me.
Chapter 7
"You want some?" Donna Harris had not only let me in, she'd been happy to see me. She'd put Ad World to bed earlier in the evening and was celebrating. Now we were in bed, finished with our lovemaking, watching a John Hodiak mystery on her small Sears black-and-white, and she was offering me some Dannon yogurt.
"Uh-huh," I said.
"Yogurt's good for you." Even in the darkness her hair was very red and she was very pretty.
"Not your kind," I said.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"What's in there."
"What's in there?"
"Now I know I've got you. Whenever you turn my statement into your question, you're doing some number. So what's in there?"
"I just put in a marshmallow."
"What else?"
"Nothing."
"Donna, c'mon."
"You c'mon, Dwyer. I offer you some yogurt and I get the third degree. God."
"So what else did you add besides the marshmallow?"
She sighed, turned around, and faced the TV. It was ghosty again. When we bought the thing the sales lady said that this ultracheapo model sometimes had reception problems in apartment houses due to all the steel in the building framework. We'd taken it as a sales pitch, but it wasn't one. If an ant so much as crawled across the floor the TV set started ghosting out.
"Is that John Hodiak or Betty Hutton?"
"Funny," she said, still pissed.
I leaned over and kissed her. "You really mad?"
"Yes."
"Honey, I've got to watch my waistline. You know that." It was true. Fat guys didn't get many acting jobs in commercials. "I mean, you can get away with eating what you like, but I can't."
She looked at me and sighed and then kissed me on the cheek. "You're right, Dwyer. I was being selfish. You know how some people hate to drink alone? I guess I hate to pig out alone."
"Right. So now will you tell me what you put in there?"
She held it up to the black-and-white glow of the TV set as if we could see into the yogurt with our X-ray vision.
"Well, the marshmallow like I said, and it really was tiny. Then some carob-covered raisins. But just a few."
"Right."
"And then about six Hershey's kisses I had lying around in the cupboard."
"How many is 'about' six."
"Boy, Dwyer, what an asshole."
"How many?"
"I'm not sure. Maybe a dozen, I guess."
"A dozen. God." Her metabolism was phenomenal. She ate pancakes for breakfast, Big Macs for lunch, and Red Lobster specials for dinner and never gained a pound. She worked out three times a week, but not as if she were training to take on the heavyweight champ. I envied her, especially when, as now, we were watching TV and she had a bed full of junk food boxes (exactly what is a "Whanger," anyway?) and was eating enough to feed all the starving orphans in Korea. All I got was my little glass of Pepsi Free.
She finished the yogurt, looking at me occasionally with a demonic gleam in her eyes.
"What're you doing?" she said twenty minutes later.
"Just writing some things down on a clipboard."
"What things?"
"About the case."
"Wade's case? You going to let me see?"
"I guess."
She had one of those tiny lights that clip on to a book to read in bed. She hooked it on the clipboard and read.
"Wow," she said, "we've got some real leads here." I paid special notice to the "we."
"Nothing real strong, unfortunately."
"The ex-convict named Lockhart talks his way into Reeves's office, obviously looking for something. Keech tries to slap Reeves a few days ago. Evelyn could have known that Reeves was stepping out on her. Anne Stewart was up in Reeves's office tonight. You don't think they're real strong? You're nuts, Dwyer."
"Thanks for the vote of confidence."
"You know what I mean."
"Yeah, I'm nuts."
"I don't have anything to do tomorrow—and you have the day off—so I'll prove it to you," she said.
"Great."
"I can tell you're looking forward to this."
She leaned over and kissed me. The kiss got a lot more serious than I thought it would, but it didn't go anyplace. For the next few minutes we went through our nighttime ritual. I always muttered a few prayers under my breath, and so did she, except she always muttered louder than I did. She must have known what I was doing, and I sure knew what she was doing, but we never once discussed it. Adults with any pretense of hipness should never admit that they pray.
I was asleep in three-and-a- half minutes.
The phone was on my side. I got it.
"Hello," I said.
There was traffic noise in the background. He was obviously calling from an outdoor phone.
"Wade, I know it's you."
Nothing.
"Wade, you really should turn yourself in. You really should."
I felt Donna press against my back. Muzzily, she said, "Let me talk to him, hon." I handed her the phone. "Stephen, listen, please. We love you very much and we're very afraid of what might happen if you don't turn yourself in. Stephen? Do you understand?"
She held the phone out so we could both hear anything he said. What he said was nothing, at least for a long time. Then, "I really fucked it up good this time, didn't I?"
No doubt about it. It was Stephen Wade. Then he hung up.
Five minutes later I was wide awake. Donna, next to me in the darkness, had started to cry softly. "We're going to find out who really killed him, Dwyer. The first goddamn thing tomorrow that's exactly what we're going to do."
She was serious, too.
Chapter 8
The halfway house where the man named Lockhart was staying was located on the edge of the city's only acknowledged ghetto. Under the overcast sky the neighborhood looked even bleaker. Black teenagers who should have been in school lounged sullenly in front of a grocery store and watched us pass by.
The house we wanted was a three-story job with a new shingled roof, a captain's walk, three spires, and a front porch long enough for the Bears to use for a scrimmage. Sixty or seventy years ago this place had probably been some banker's version of Shangri-la. Though the temperature was only in the low fifties and a damp mist gave the sky a dusky feel, three men were sitting on the porch in rusty lawn chairs. They watched Donna approach with special, and understandable, interest. She had gone trendy today, heels and designer jeans and a baby-blue sweater that could make you weep.
There's an air about newly released cons. They're nervous, as if they're waiting for anything they do to get them hauled right back into the slam again. These guys were to be pitied. They wanted to look at Donna and they did look at Donna but then they looked away quickly, as if the law were going to show up and beat their brains in. In their view, I suppose, I was the law.
I nodded, trying to make the gesture broad and pleasant. Two of them nodded back. One of them snuck a peek at Donna again. He licked his dry lips, as if somebody had just put a big Thanksgiving dinner down in front of him.
"We'd like to see a man named Lockhart," I said.
The first man, in greasy green work clothes that smelled of car oil, smiled. He had bad teeth. "You ain't the only one. He's been gettin' a lot of calls the past couple days."
"You can't find him?"
Now the second man spoke. He was tall and tubercular. His Adam's apple looked like it weighed twenty-five pounds. His face didn't make sense. He had a sad little mouth and a jackal's eyes. "Oh, everybody knows where he's at."
The third man grinned. "He's up in the attic. The poor sumbitch." He had Elvis sideburns and greasy black hair. Blackheads gave his fa
ce an unfinished look, like a board with too many knots. "Anderson's gonna keep him there, too, you can bet your ass on that."
"Anderson the man around here?"
"You got that right, mister," the first one said.
"He inside?"
The third man guffawed. "He always inside, pal. Always. Try'n sneak out some time and you'll find if he's inside or not."
It was then, for the first time, that I realized that these guys were stoned. Between the first and second I saw a small brown prescription bottle. It probably contained cough syrup, which is a cheap high because it doesn't take much and it lasts a long time.
"All right if we go inside?" I asked.
"Hey, prince, you're askin' the wrong man."
I smiled. "Guess we'll have to go inside to find out if it's all right to go inside, huh?" But they were too stoned to see the irony.
We went inside. I almost had to pick their eyeballs off Donna's behind, like ticks after a picnic.
Once there had been a vestibule but it had been knocked out. Now most of the first floor was one big communal room with wobbly furniture from at least five different eras. There was a Motorola black-and-white that had been new about the time Uncle Miltie was laying claim to Tuesday nights, and a phonograph that had probably played a lot of Bing Crosby records. From the kitchen drifted the odors of institutional food: oversalted, oversweetened, anything to kill the taste. There was a residue of cigarette smoke that could have been cut with hedge clippers. It was a sad place, a place where men without women and without dreams passed days in front of the TV or under the thumb of a minimum-wage boss who hated them—men who feared the slammer but didn't really know where else to go. The majority, hapless, hopeless, would be back there within six months.
I took Donna's arm and led her over to a big board that looked like a flight schedule in a terminal. There was a long list of men's names, and next to each was written the place where he was employed. Next to these were two boxes, one that read "Time Out" and one that read "Time Back."
We were reading all this when a whiskey voice behind us said, "Help you folks?"
When he reached us, I saw that his voice complemented his body perfectly. He had slicked-back forties-style hair and a wide, flat Slavic face with black eyes that knew all sorts of truths that most of us would rather not know. He had a gold-capped tooth and he used Aqua Velva green and he put out a hand that could have crushed a whole six-pack of beer. He wore an old blue cardigan sweater that sloped to cover his considerable girth and gray OshKosh washable pants and a pair of leather house slippers that fit as tightly as shoes. He was every boss in every institution I'd ever known.