by Ed Gorman
Molly left the crowd at the bottom of the stairs and went up to the door and started snapping photographs for the paper. She managed to look brand-new despite the heat, having changed clothes again. A pink blouse and short black skirt reminded me that even if we hadn’t been soul mates, we’d been body mates. When she turned back, she saw me and waved. It wasn’t a happy wave. It was an urgent one.
She was breathless by the time she reached me. I leaned against a parking meter.
“Harrison’ll never get a fair trial in this town, McCain.”
“They have any idea who might have done this?”
“Did you hear what I said?” She was loud enough and angry enough to win the attention of several folks standing at the bottom of the library stairs.
“Yeah, I heard. I just don’t want to be reminded of who I’m trying to help.”
“He’s a patriot, McCain. A real patriot. Not like these phony bastards from the VFW who charged into the newspaper office this morning. They want the publisher to write a front-page editorial and list the names of all the people at the rally last night.”
It was too hot to argue. My shirt was starting to feel glued to my back and I had to keep wiping sweat from my eyes. “Look, first of all, they have a perfect right to be mad, all right? Veterans of Foreign Wars, does that ring any bells? That means that they fought and risked their lives. Harrison didn’t. I don’t agree with them about Vietnam, but we have to respect what they’ve done. And second of all, even if they publish a list of names—which I sure as hell don’t agree with—it’ll look pretty much like the same people who signed that letter to the paper protesting the war.”
“Meaning what exactly?”
“Meaning if somebody wants to harass us, a new list of names won’t be much added help. They’ve got the letter we all sent to the paper. Your paper.”
She frowned. Those freckles and that pert little nose made me want to kiss her. “Well, I suppose Harrison’s right. All this will just make his book that much more dramatic.”
I was able to restrain myself. I said nothing.
“He has such a beautiful soul, McCain. A Russian soul.”
“Ummm.”
“You’re making fun of him.”
“‘Ummm’ isn’t making fun.”
“The way you say ‘ummm’ it is.”
Trixie joined us. “Looks like somebody doesn’t agree with us.”
“Doesn’t it bother you?”
“Sure it does, Molly. It bothers me that they did it here instead of my house. When I signed that letter in the paper, I was signing as a private citizen, not as a representative of the library. Remember, I wrote a follow-up saying that exactly, and you people published it.”
“We’re probably not dealing with anybody here who’s real rational,” I said.
“Yes,” Trixie said. In an aqua-colored blouse and dark skirt, she looked trim and competent. Which is how she kept the library—trim and competent. “That’s what I’m afraid of.” She glanced from me to Molly and back to me. “You two really do make a cute couple.”
“I’ve been thinking the same thing myself,” I said.
“Well, time to open the doors. Bye.”
“You didn’t have to agree with her, McCain. You just did that to embarrass me.”
“Yeah, that’s probably right.”
Then she leaned her pretty head back and gave me a stricken look. She had at last identified the monster. “My God, you’re still jealous of him, aren’t you?”
“Not really. I just think you’re rushing into something and you may be disappointed. Believe it or not, I’m trying to be your friend.”
“Some friend. There he is rotting in a dungeon, and you’re out here enjoying your freedom and libeling his name to anybody who’ll listen.”
“Slandering.”
“What?”
“You said libeling. That’s written word. Slander is spoken word. You majored in journalism, remember?”
“I just can’t believe you sometimes,” she said, her bright blue gaze furious now. “You’re just pathetic.”
I started to say something, but she held up a halting hand. “Don’t bother. Don’t bother at all.”
“I’m trying to clear him, aren’t I? Not for his sake, but the sake of the cause, as he calls it. Soldiers in the anti-war movement or whatever that bullshit was.”
“It wasn’t bullshit. It was poetry.”
I gave her an unwanted peck on the cheek and sauntered back to my ragtop.
7
CLIFFIE COULD HAVE TAKEN DORAN IN THE BACK DOOR OF THE police department, of course, but that would have disappointed the reporters he’d obviously tipped in advance. He’d even managed to snag a TV crew from one of the Cedar Rapids channels. WARNING: MAD DOG KILLER BROUGHT TO JUSTICE AT 11:35 A.M. DON’T MISS IT.
And where there were reporters, there were passersby, twenty or so of them gathered in a semicircle around the squad car from which Harrison Doran, in handcuffs, was just now emerging. I’d pushed my way to the front of the crowd, my elbows making a lot of friends in the process. Cliffie took off his campaign hat and wiped his brow with his sleeve. The temperature was ninety-two. Eight or nine cameras snapped his face, and the TV reporter said, “Did he resist arrest, Chief?”
“Oh, he tried all right.” And then Cliffie slapped his holster. “But I guess he just plain didn’t know what he was up against.”
At least a few of the onlookers had the grace to laugh. Most of us quit playing cowboys about age seven or so. Somebody really should point that out to Cliffie sometime. But then if he was secretly Glenn Ford, I had to admit that I was still secretly Robert Ryan. Though Ryan was taller, better looking, tougher, and smarter than me, I could definitely see a similarity between us even if nobody else could.
Doran was gray. His blue eyes were frantic. I could see that he’d been crying. Then I remembered Molly saying that he’d been drunk. Maybe what I was seeing was a combination of terror and hangover. His jeans had grass stains all over the knees, and his T-shirt was smudged in three different places with what was obviously blood. The shirt should have been taken off him and put into an evidence bag. But after all, it was Cliffie in charge, wasn’t it?
Doran moved at an angle to me. I saw a long gash on the inside of his left arm. That could explain the blood on his T-shirt.
“Did you get a confession, Chief Sykes?” a reporter called out.
“Not yet. But we will.”
I watched Doran’s face. He didn’t react in any way. He was hiding, cowering inside himself.
“So you’ve got evidence against him?” another reporter asked.
“Take a look at this shirt.” Cliffie turned and grabbed a handful of the T-shirt so cameras could get a clear shot of it. This was the kind of evidence you kept to yourself in an arrest. Somewhere in town, the district attorney, another member of the Sykes clan, had just fainted.
He put his campaign hat on and raised his hands. “That’s it for now, everybody. We can’t have the front of the police station cluttered up this way. We’ll be having a press conference later this afternoon, but for now everybody should get back to what they were doing.”
The new station is two-storied red brick with wide concrete steps leading to double glass doors. Cliffie likes to stand on top of the steps for his press conferences. I’m sure it makes him feel like a big-city cop.
“Now, c’mon, everybody, let’s break it up.”
I stood where I was as everybody else broke for their cars or back to the sidewalks.
I stepped forward. “Sykes.”
I’d been speaking to his back. But when he heard my voice, he spun around so fast I thought he might draw on me. He had a sneer all ready. “Well, well, well. It’s my old friend McCain. I guess I must have missed seeing you in the crowd. Being’s you’re so short and all.”
“I’m going to be his attorney.”
“Did you hear that, Doran? Sam McCain’s going to be your attorney. Now you’
ve really got trouble.” His deputy thought this was hilarious. Doran’s stunned look didn’t change.
“I need to talk to him.”
“Well, isn’t that nice? I’ll tell you what, McCain. You come back here around the same time tomorrow and I’ll see what I can do for you. How’s that?”
“Even you know better than that, Sykes. I don’t want him questioned unless I’m present.” I looked at Doran. “Do you hear that? You don’t say a word unless I’m with you, all right?”
“Well now, if he should just break down and tell me about how he killed poor Lou Bennett, you sure wouldn’t expect me not to listen to him, would you?”
He took Doran’s arm hard enough to make him wince. Then he shoved him forward. He started walking him up the steps, then turned back to me. “You’ll see him when I tell you you can see him, McCain, and not until then.”
He dragged Doran up the stairs and disappeared inside.
8
THE BARBERSHOP WAS OPEN. I STOOD AT THE WINDOW LOOKING in. I knew all five of the customers as well as I knew the two barbers. They were looking right back at me. Usually one or two of them would have waved and smiled. There was none of that today. I was a pariah. There was another shop a block down. I thought about going there, and then I thought the hell with it. I’d been coming here since my boyhood, but the original barbers had retired.
By the time I crossed the threshold, the men in the customer chairs had made a point of reading. The two men under the striped covers got busy talking to Mike and Earle, their respective barbers. The Amish up the highway called it shunning, after someone went against the will of the tribe.
I sat down and lighted a cigarette and picked up one of those adventure-type magazines Kenny wrote for. “Forced Into Prostitution by Nazi Commandos!” seemed the most promising, at least judging by the illustration of an Amazonian beauty whose clothes were in tatters. Fortunately for her, she had a Bowie knife in her teeth and an Army .45 in her hand. She also had an all-American towhead in similarly tattered khaki clothes pointing a submachine gun at the Nazi commandos pouring over a nearby hill.
Usually there was conversation. The snip of scissors, the hum of the electric razor, the squeak of the barber chair as it turned—these were the only sounds. The few things I could enjoy now were the familiar smell of the shop itself, the hot shaving soap, the talc, and the aftershave.
The door opened. When I looked up, I saw Ralph DePaul walk in. He was the retired fire chief, a gray-haired man in good condition who always looked ready for a golf game. After giving up the chief’s job, he ran for mayor. Local politics leaned Republican, but moderate Republican. DePaul was a Barry Goldwater man and a John Birch Society member. Some people were frightened by his thunderous speeches; others, the majority, just thought he was kind of silly, especially when he started in on his “Communists Among Us” speech.
“Well, McCain, I suppose you’re proud of yourself.” There were no empty chairs he could sit in. This served his purpose. He preferred to loom over me. This wasn’t our first run-in. As a Republican who thought Ike was too soft, he’d tangled with me many times before.
“Free country, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
“Yes, and you know who made it free? The men who fought the wars. If I had a son over there and I saw you and the rest of that leftwing trash running our country down, you know what I’d do?”
“Give one of your moronic speeches?”
“Hey,” Earle the barber said. “I cut hair here. I don’t referee fights.”
“Well, I don’t blame Ralph one bit,” said Larry Bellamy, a vice president at the town’s largest bank. “I was in Korea. I fought and risked my life. Why shouldn’t these kids do the same?”
“And anyway, Lou Bennett might be alive if he hadn’t done the right thing and tried to stop that meeting. That goddamn loudmouth punk Cliffie’s got in jail—I hear you’re his lawyer.” Byron Davies was the city auditor. Because the barbershop was close to the courthouse and city hall, it was a gathering place for those who imagined themselves to be in power. Reputations were made and broken here. And newcomers had to pass the inspection of these men or they’d have serious problems getting set up for business.
Earle finished with his customer. The man stood up, extracted his wallet from his back pocket, and paid Earle, flourishing a final bill and saying, “That’s a little extra for you.” He intoned this as if he was handing him a pirate’s treasure. All he got for his trouble was a little nod of the head from Earle. Everybody tipped the barbers here. It wasn’t anything CBS was going to cover. As the next man moved up to the empty chair, Earle snapped the barber cape a couple of times to get rid of the hair and then hitched up his pants, ready for his next customer.
DePaul was forced to sit next to me. He picked up the Des Moines Register, the state paper the right always criticized as leftwing. He started going through it and said, “They only covered your little rally on page three, McCain. I guess you didn’t get the publicity you wanted.”
I didn’t say anything. There wasn’t anything to say. I just went on with my reading about large-breasted Nazi slaves who were being saved by the sweaty murder-crazed Yank who would soon enough be sampling them all.
“Look at this one, this picture of Berkeley. It’s sickening. These are supposed to be college students. But all they do is demonstrate and complain. They got rid of the loyalty oath at that university and they’re still not satisfied.”
He was baiting me, and everybody in the shop knew it. Even the barbers showed the tension. Mike frowned and Earle sighed. The students had succeeded in getting rid of the loyalty oath that dated back to the days of Joe McCarthy and the House Un-American Activities Committee. Swearing loyalty to the country as part of your admissions process was decidedly Un-American in itself.
I stopped reading. I knew it wouldn’t do any good to start in on him with politics. I was outnumbered.
Everybody sat in silence until the phone rang. Earle and Mike had trained us to be quiet while they were taking calls. In their past lives they’d been prison guards. The only exceptions were the Saturday afternoons when the Hawkeyes played football. They played the radio so loud, it didn’t matter if you kept talking. It also didn’t matter who called. The radio was never turned down. “Who’s this? The Pope who?”
The call was for DePaul. “I suppose my wife wants me to get something from the store for her.” He made a sour face and shook his head. He apparently hadn’t signed on for errands.
He took the phone from Earle and said, “Hello.” His expression changed from annoyance to wariness. He glanced around as if he was afraid one of us knew what the call was about. His fingers gripped the receiver so tightly, they were bloodless. “Uh, huh. Well, we’ll have to talk about this later. Obviously.” His blue eyes still continued to flick from face to face. Only a couple of us were interested. The rest read. The barbers barbered. Then he said, his voice tight and angry, “I said later. Now good-bye.” He didn’t hand the receiver to Earle. He walked it back to the phone himself. You could see him overcoming the urge to slam the receiver down so hard it would smash the phone into chunks of black. Then he turned and said to all of us, “Damned insurance men. They won’t leave you alone anywhere.”
His line didn’t work for me, but it did for Mike the barber and the man in his chair. They started on a marathon of insurance-man horror stories. A few of them even sounded true.
When my turn came to be shorn, I spent a good share of my time in the chair watching DePaul. The gaze was distracted now, the lips puckered in pique. At least he wasn’t in his judgmental mood. He was manly enough, I suppose, but there was a scold in him too, the maiden aunt who thought all little boys were naughty and all little girls were fools to associate with anybody who had a penis.
Then he surprised me. He slapped down the magazine he’d been holding and not reading and stood up. “Earle, I guess I’ll have to take a rain check. I just remembered an appointment I have in fifteen minutes.�
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“Hell, Ralph, that’s too bad. Stop back. Things’ll probably slow down in an hour or so.”
He said good-bye to everybody but me and then left. His sudden exit had made the call he’d gotten much more mysterious.
9
THE HEAT WOULD LIKELY KILL SOMEBODY TODAY. AN ELDERLY person probably, one of those who get overlooked by everybody and are found dead a few days later by the mailman when the smell gets bad. By the time I was halfway back to my ragtop, my white short-sleeved shirt was soaked. I walked under awnings as often as I could. And that was how I almost literally bumped into William Hughes. He came fast out of Flanagan’s Pharmacy just as I was crossing past the entrance. He jerked to a stop and said, “Sorry.”
I was moving pretty fast myself and probably wouldn’t have noticed him if he hadn’t said anything. William—never “Will”—Hughes was a tall, thin, gray-haired man in his late fifties. His handsome dark face is dominated by brown eyes that don’t merely look at you. They judge you. The tautness of the gaze extends to the tautness of the entire body, as if he’s always prepared for the worst. It’s a defensive posture. Right now he showed no sadness or anger for the loss of his friend and boss, but then he wouldn’t. Not publicly, anyway. He wore a deep-blue golf shirt, light-blue well-creased slacks, and a pair of black loafers that he’d shined with military fervor. He wore a spicy aftershave. He didn’t look at all happy to see me.
“You have a few minutes, William?”
“I’m really in a hurry to get back to Linda. You know what happened, don’t you?”
“That’s what I want to talk to you about.”
We had to move to let people in and out of the pharmacy entrance. Hughes had a small white prescription sack in his large right hand and started tapping it against his leg. “I’m really in a hurry.”
“I’m representing Harrison Doran.”
The eyes narrowed and a frown creased his mouth. “Then I probably shouldn’t be talking to you.”
