by Ed Gorman
“Seven.”
“What would you think about The Eyrie, that new place out on the highway? We can dance there, too.”
“You and dancing.”
“Face it, Sam. You like it too. You just have to be all boy about it and pretend you don’t. You were grinning when you were doing the Watusi.”
“I was doing the Watusi? I was just sort of jerking around.”
“That’s what everybody does when they do the Watusi.”
“Man, talk about useless information.”
She laughed. “Yes, and there’s a lot more where that came from.” Then she tapped me on the top of my hand. “You feeling any better about Mike?”
“No. And I doubt I will. He thinks we’re betraying him. It’s hard to face him. I don’t blame him for thinking what he does. I’d probably feel the same way if I’d gone through what he did. And here I am all safe and sound, talking against the military. I feel like shit about it.”
“But you won’t stop?”
“No. No, I can’t. And who knows, I may have to go some day.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No. I’m in the National Guard. I spent two weeks in June at camp. If the war keeps expanding, they’ll be calling us up.”
“Will you go if they do?”
“Probably. I’m not any better than the rest of the guys in my unit. We’re all pretty good friends. I couldn’t do that to them.”
She sank back in her chair. “So the best husband material I’ve run across in the last two years is going to run away?”
“Write your congressman.”
“You’re damned right I will.” Then: “Oh, shit, if you’ll pardon my French. I don’t want you to go. I’m already having all these stupid dreams about you—about us. Based on one night. How’s that for crazy?”
“I had one or two dreams like that myself. Based on one night. Maybe it’s just that we’re so comfortable with each other. Maybe all that time we spent sitting next to each other in high school is finally paying off.”
“I hope so. I just want to feel as good as I did last night. And as soon as I saw you this morning, I felt good again—until you brought up the war. Now I’m nervous about it.”
I left a dollar tip for the waitress and stood up.
She worked her way over to me and kissed me on the cheek. “Lou wanted me to be a perfect little wife, so he made me get into all these clubs for the snooty people. I have to go to one of the meetings this afternoon.”
“My kind of folks.”
“I’ll bet, wise-ass. So, where’re you headed?”
“To talk to Cliffie, if he’s back from Roy Davenport’s yet.”
“Sometimes I almost feel sorry for him. He’s got that poor little girl with spina bifida, and when you see them together he’s so loving and proud of her. But then he’s so stupid at his job. Then I don’t feel sorry for him, because he shouldn’t be the chief. If his father hadn’t bullied the city council into giving it to him, he’d be walking a beat.”
I kissed her back on the cheek. “You think he knows how to Watusi?”
She jabbed me in the ribs and then we parted.
20
THE LOBBY OF THE POLICE STATION WAS FILLED WITH reporters. Two murders in a few days brought TV, radio, and print journalists from Cedar Rapids, Des Moines, Iowa City, and two or three smaller towns, in addition to our own people.
Molly was one of them. In her pink dress, sandals, and ponytail, she was the belle of this particular ball, the only other female being a surly woman from a nearby newspaper. Over beers one night, the woman told me she’d been hired to edit the paper and do rewrite. She did not like being sent out on assignment. She had a cigarette hack, could drink most men under the table, and one night belted a TV reporter who insulted the Chicago Bears. I’d considered asking her to marry me, but then I thought better of it. She was not only tougher than I was; she was also meaner.
Molly took me by the elbow and led me into a corner perfect for whispering.
“What’s wrong?” I said.
“This. Roy Davenport being murdered. Now Cliffie’ll probably let Harrison go.”
After all the coffee I’d had, I was self-conscious about my breath. We had to be almost head-to-head to speak in whispers. I talked out of the side of my mouth like Bogart so I wouldn’t scorch her with a full blast.
“Why’re you talking like that?”
“Coffee breath.”
“Here, for God’s sake.”
She gave me a stick of Doublemint. I didn’t have the heart to complain that this gum was at least as old as I was. I jammed it into my mouth and crunched down on it with my molars. It sounded like tiny rocks being crushed. Then I started whispering again. “Cliffie has to let him go. It’s obvious these two murders are related. He won’t have any choice.”
She stamped her foot. Some of the other reporters started watching us. She whispered, “But Harrison says he needs at least a week in prison or it’ll spoil the book.”
“First of all, it isn’t ‘prison,’ it’s jail. Second of all, his book is a fantasy. Third of all, I can’t believe you’re being sucked into this.”
“God, McCain. You’re just so jealous, it’s embarrassing.”
“Not jealous, Molly. Just worried about you a little.” Apparently my voice had risen, because two or three reporters started watching us again. “I don’t want to see you get hurt. Doran isn’t exactly stable.”
“And you are? All the women you’ve been with, and you’re not married yet? How stable is that?”
“I’m just trying to help you, Molly. That’s all.”
There wasn’t anything else to say. I walked away. My friend Marjorie Kincaid was behind the desk again. Her black beehive hairdo was intact. I wondered how she slept with it. Maybe she had some kind of aluminum tube that slipped over it at night to keep it from getting messed up.
“Finally I get to talk to somebody who’s not a reporter.” She obviously didn’t care if they heard her.
“Is the chief in?”
“‘The chief’? This must be very serious, Sam.”
“I just want him to know how much I respect him.”
“We all want him to know that, Sam. That’s the reason I live.”
“He’s going to hear you one of these days.”
“All the stuff I have on him—I’m not worried.” She swiveled to her intercom: “Chief, Sam McCain would like to talk to you for a few minutes.”
“Is he sober?”
The reporters laughed. Cliffie knew they could hear him.
“Has he grown any, or does he still look like a kid?”
Marjorie rolled her eyes. “Should I send him back?”
“I’m giving him five minutes.”
She clicked off. A reporter snapped: “Why does he get to see the chief when we don’t?”
“They go to the same church,” Marjorie said.
“What’s the denomination?”
“Druid,” I said and walked back.
Cliffie was smiling when I walked into his photo gallery that he called an office. Cliffie had signed black-and-white photos from a few famous people, but mostly from people who were political hacks like himself. Famous or not, they all got framed space on his walls. Most of the poses were the same, too, Cliffie shaking hands with the person. Cliffie looked like a used-car salesman who had just unloaded the biggest lemon on the lot.
I started to sit down, but he waggled a metronome finger at me—back and forth, forth and back. “Huh-uh, McCain. You’re not going to be here long enough to make it worth your while to sit down.”
“You don’t even know what I’m going to say.”
On the wall behind him, to the right of the large window, was his most sacred framed photo, that of actor Glenn Ford.
“Oh, I know what you’re going to say, McCain. When I was out there at Davenport’s looking at the body I said to myself, I’ll bet McCain’s going to try and tell me that Lou Bennett’s murder is
tied to this one. That’s what you’re going to tell me, right?”
“Well, I—”
He held up a pudgy hand. “And then I said to myself, what he’s after is to spring this Harrison Doran. He’s going to say that since these two murders are tied together, Doran should be let go.”
“You’re making my case for me.”
“Uh-uh. I’m making my case for me. An amateur like you sees a connection between the two killings, but an old pro like myself—huh-uh. Roy Davenport was a hood. He had plenty of enemies of his own. Whoever killed him figured by bumping off Davenport now, it’d look like it had something to do with the Bennett murder. Pretty good thinking except for one thing. He hadn’t counted on a brain like mine.” He tapped his temple for dramatic effect. “You see what I’m trying to say here, McCain? He thinks he’s outsmarting me, but I’m outsmarting him.”
“With your brain.”
“That’s right, McCain, with my brain. So your boy Doran stays right where he is. He killed Lou Bennett. That one I’ve got wrapped up. Now I have to start a separate investigation to find the man who killed Davenport. That’s how an old pro does it. Stick around. You could learn something.”
“Oh, I’ve learned something already.”
“Oh, yeah, what’s that?”
“You’re even dumber than I thought you were. The same person killed Bennett and Davenport. They were business partners for years. If one of them had an enemy, then the other one had the same enemy. And that means that Doran didn’t kill Bennett. Somebody else did.”
All he had for me was a contrived smile. “Doesn’t feel good, does it, McCain? I figured this one out and you didn’t. You won’t have bragging rights on this one.”
“Does that mean that you know who killed Roy Davenport?”
He kept the smile. He made it wide and irritating. “Now, you don’t think I’d tell you, do you? I’m a sworn officer of the law.”
“I guess I was wrong.”
That got his attention. “What? Wrong about what?”
“I just told somebody waiting to see you that even you wouldn’t be stupid enough to think these murders weren’t committed by the same person.”
At least I got rid of his smile. “You tell a lot of people I’m stupid. And you’ve been telling them since you hung out your shingle. And you know what? I’m still chief of police and you’re still a failure as a lawyer. You want to hear what some of the successful lawyers say about you?”
“I could give a shit what they say.”
“Now that’s a lie and you know it.” He looked right at me. “Any more than if I was to say that I don’t give a shit about some of the things you say about me.”
I wanted to say something smart, but his honesty surprised me. He was admitting that all the scorn hurt him. He had no right to tell me this, because, at least for the moment here, I had to feel bad about making fun of him all the time. Cliffie was supposed to be a cartoon. It pissed me off that he’d forced me to see him as a human being.
Then he did me the favor of reverting to type. “It’s my turn here, McCain. My turn. I’m going to solve two murders at the same time. And all the people who make fun of me behind my back will have to eat a big barrelful of shit. Hot steamy shit. And I’ll guarantee you, I won’t have just one killer, I’ll have two. And whether you like it or not, I’ve already got the mouthy bastard who murdered Lou. He’s sitting in a cell right down the hall there.”
“He didn’t do it. I don’t like him much better than you do. I wish he’d never come to town, and I can barely stand to be around him for more than a minute or two. But he didn’t kill Bennett. That much I’m sure of. And I don’t care if you ‘win’ this one or not, Chief. It probably is your turn. All I want is to see that the right man goes to prison.”
“He should be going to the gallows. But thanks to you and your liberal friends, we don’t have capital punishment in this state any more.” Then: “What’s so funny?”
I hadn’t realized I was smiling. “Just the way you manage to give little political speeches every chance you get. I know how you feel about the death penalty. You rag me about it all the time.” What I’d really been smiling about was how good it felt to return to our usual adversarial relationship. He’d only gone human on me for less than thirty seconds. That amount of time I could handle. But not any more.
I walked to the door. “You’d better get out there and talk to them. They’re getting restless.”
“If I had my way, we’d shoot every reporter in the state on sight.”
“Be sure to mention that when you’re talking to them.”
“You know, McCain, someday if I’m real lucky I’ll be a cool guy just like you think you are.”
“That’s right, Chief,” I said. “If you’re lucky.”
I didn’t talk to Molly on my way out of the station. I just waved and hurried on. I didn’t want to be around when she learned that Doran was not going to be released.
“I guess I don’t understand, Mr. C.”
In her berry-red miniskirt and white blouse, Jamie was a decided distraction. She seemed to have become even more carelessly erotic since her eighteenth birthday. Or maybe that was because I could now legally look at her as a woman. She was stretching to put a law book on the third shelf above our tiny refrigerator. The position outlined her body all too well.
“What I meant was, I’m happy to give you an advance if it’s for you. Something you need or your family needs. But I’m pretty sure this is for Turk, isn’t it?”
She shoved the book back on the shelf, then ended her stretch. She faced me. “He really needs this outfit. He’s pretty sure a big record producer’s going to be in the audience.” She walked over and sat down at her desk.
“He was sure there was going to be a big record producer the last time he played this bar.”
“Well, like he says, this producer is real busy. He has a lot of big stars to worry about. Sometimes he can’t get away.”
I wanted to point out the obvious to this girl-woman-child. I wanted to say that no record producer would ever be found checking out a bar band in Black River Falls, Iowa. I wanted to say that either Turk was living in a fantasy world or he was creating a fantasy for Jamie as a means of prying more money out of her for his “outfits.” But I couldn’t, because she wouldn’t believe me. And because she might very well start crying. I did not need any tears on this particular morning.
“Tell you what, Jamie. How about Turk going halvsies?”
“What’s ‘halvesies’ mean?”
“You pay half and he pays half.”
“But he doesn’t have any money, Mr. C.”
“Well, doesn’t he get paid for these gigs? He must earn something.”
“Well, he earns a little bit. They have to split it up between four guys, remember. But he needs that for cigarettes and beer and stuff like that.”
“Are you keeping track of how much he’s borrowed from you?”
“Oh, he’s not borrowing, Mr. C. I’m just giving him the money. When he gets his record deal and the money starts coming in, it’s like Turk says. We’ll get married and then he’ll make sure I get paid back every cent.”
“But you’re not keeping track of what you give him. How will you know how much—” I stopped myself. Pointless to go on. “You’ve already borrowed against your next check, Jamie.”
“He really needed those new boots. They’re like the Beatles wear. Turk said people wouldn’t take him serious if he didn’t have boots like that. Record producers can always tell if you’re up to date, Turk says.”
“All right. I’ll tell you what. I’m going to give you your full paycheck. We’ll call what you’ve borrowed a bonus, all right?”
“Gosh, thanks, Mr. C.”
“But there’s a catch.”
“There is?” She was suddenly a little girl afraid of hearing some imminent bad news. “Like what?”
“Like you won’t give more than twenty percent of your check
to Turk.”
“How much will that be?”
“It doesn’t matter. We’ll figure it out. But I want you to make that agreement with me. No more than twenty percent. And that goes for every check I give you.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. C, but I don’t think Turk’ll like that.”
“Fine. Tell him to come and see me.”
Her cheeks bloomed pink. “Well, I don’t think you’ll want to see him after you get the letter.”
“What letter?”
She folded her hands and sat up straight. I’d never seen eyes cower before, but that’s exactly what her eyes were doing. Cowering. “You know Mr. Dodsworth?”
“John Dodsworth, the lawyer here in town?”
“Umm-hmm.”
“What about him?”
“Well—” Her gaze fell to her lap. “Well, Turk says that Mr. Dodsworth is going to send you a letter suing you for what happened to Turk. You know, in your office here.”
The phone rang. Relief replaced the fear in her eyes. She even managed to address the caller properly. “Good morning, the law offices of Sam McCain.” Pause. “Oh, good morning, Mr. Hughes. Just a moment, please.”
I had to clear my anger before I had enough room in my head to register surprise that William Hughes had actually called me back. I’d called him half an hour ago at the Bennett estate and left a message. I’d have to deal with Turk later. I had plenty of time to murder him. I didn’t even have to buy extra bullets. I planned to strangle him. After breaking several of his more critical bones.
“Thanks for returning my call, William. I appreciate it.”
“What can I do for you, Mr. McCain? The funeral’s tomorrow morning, and we’re all pretty busy around here.”
“I just wondered how well you knew Roy Davenport.”
“He was Mr. Bennett’s business partner for several years. Naturally I got to know him. Why?”
“Did you ever see him with Fire Chief DePaul?”
“Of course. Chief DePaul and Roy were out here a lot, using the tennis courts and going to parties.”
“Were they friendly?”
“I’m not sure what that means, Mr. McCain. I never saw them argue, if that’s what you’re talking about.”
