Sam McCain - 01 - The Day the Music Died

by Ed Gorman

  I started down the hallway. More smells came to me. The chemicals the police had used on the crime scene. The seductive hint of perfume, probably from one of the bedrooms down the hallway. And cold—cold has a smell.

  Jack London always talked about it in his Alaska stories. For the people in his stories, the smell of cold was too often the smell of death.

  My footsteps sounded elephantine on the wood floors. I was six, seven steps down the hallway. The light from the front of the house suddenly died. The hallway was very dark.

  I didn’t really see him until it was over.

  A silhouette leaned out of a bedroom doorway on the right, near the end of the hallway and two bullets exploded red-yellow from the barrel of a pistol.

  I was too busy diving to the bedroom’s carpeted floor to recognize who it was. But of course it was Darin Greene. I got a nice rug burn on my chin. Reminded me

  of the dates I’d had in high school with Pamela. We’d roll around on her folks’

  new carpeting and I’d get a lot of rug burns but very little else.

  “I coulda killed you, man,” Greene said from the darkness of the bedroom. “And next time I will. Now you get your white ass outta here.”

  “Cliffie wants to kill you, Darin,” I said, putting a hand against the wall to help me to my feet. “You’re making it easy for him.”

  “All I want is for this son of a bitch to tell me the truth, man,” Greene said. “That he killed Susan.”

  “I didn’t!” Robert Frazier

  half-screamed. “I would never kill my own daughter.”

  “You found out I was sleepin’ with her and you killed her, you son of a bitch!”

  So there it was. The reason for the falling out with his old friend Kenny Whitney. There aren’t many ways to alienate a man faster than to sleep with his wife.

  “Kenny killed her! Kenny killed her!”

  Frazier said again.

  I was scared, but it wasn’t a crippling fear.

  In ninth grade a kid from a county high school picked a fight with me with no warning. It was at a football game and he’d had a few illegal beers. He lunged at me. And I was crippled, paralyzed. I couldn’t reach my anger. That’s the scariest feeling in the world, when you can’t find the wherewithal to fight back. Three or four friends of mine pulled him off me.

  Greene fired off another shot, but all it hit were some perfume bottles lined up along a Hollywood-style makeup table. The bottles sounded delicate as they flew apart. The air was flooded with the high sweet narcotic of expensive perfume.

  I rolled past the bed to a place behind a chaise lounge. The bedroom was enormous—the huge canopy bed, the master bathroom off the west wall, two walk-in closets and enough floor space to hold a modest-size meeting.

  From behind the chaise lounge, I said, “You don’t want to die, Darin. We’ve got to get you out of this house alive.”

  “Sykes’ll kill me anyway.”

  “Not if I lead the way out and you’ve got your hands up. Not even Sykes’d be that

  stupid.”

  “He thinks I killed my own daughter,”

  Frazier bellowed. “He called me up tonight and said if I’d come out here he’d tell me who really killed Susan. So, like a fool, I came out here and then he accuses me!”

  Greene said, “I know I’m a bastard, Frazier. But I wasn’t a bastard to Susan.

  Believe it or not, I loved her. And she loved me. I was gentle with her. Real gentle. The way I shoulda been with my wife and kids.”

  Until that moment, I’d had a hard time imagining Darin and Susan together. But the soft way he spoke, I could hear why she’d gone with him, especially considering the way her husband had treated her and all.

  Then Darin went and ruined everything.

  “You made her get an abortion, didn’t you?” Greene said to Frazier. Then he turned to me, “Me ‘n’ her was gonna have a baby.

  Kenny couldn’t have no kids on account of his sperm count or somethin’. Anyway, she made the mistake of tellin’ Frazier here what happened and then he made her get an abortion.”

  “Yes,” Frazier said, “and that’s when you started blackmailing her.”

  Greene hit him. It was one of those blows that you can almost feel; it was so blunt and deadly. I peeked up over the edge of the chaise lounge.

  Frazier was sinking to the bed. “Don’t you ever say that again, man. I loved her and she loved me and I wouldn’t blackmail her. No way!”

  Frazier, holding his head from Greene’s punch, said, “Then who was blackmailing her?”

  “I don’t know, man. But it wasn’t me!”

  Frazier raised his head. He looked old now in the spilling light from outdoors, old and baffled and done. Even the anger seemed blanched out of him. “Then you know how I feel when you accuse me of killing my own daughter! I sure as hell didn’t like what she was doing. But I didn’t force her to have an abortion. She did that on her own. And I didn’t kill her, either.”

  “Where’d she’d get an abortion?” I said.

  “She took care of it herself,” Frazier said.

  “At least that’s what she told me. Maybe Greene knows.”

  “No, I don’t. She just went and done it’s all I know.”

  By this time, I had crawled to the far end

  of the chaise lounge. I needed something to throw.

  There was a small table at the far end of the chaise lounge. On the table was an ashtray, a star-shaped glass ashtray. It could probably fit comfortably in the palm of my hand. No real weight at all. The only thing that made it a potential weapon were the edges. They couldn’t cut deeply, but they could certainly do enough damage to momentarily stun somebody—if the thrower’s aim was accurate.

  I snatched the ashtray up and gripped it tight. I’d have to stand up to throw with any accuracy. And then I’d have to follow through.

  Hopefully, between Frazier and I, we could restrain Greene long enough to get his gun. The longer we waited, the hungrier that crowd was going to get.

  But the first thing I needed to do was distract him.

  There was a small cigarette lighter next to the ashtray. That would work.

  He went for it. I hurled the lighter against the wall behind him. He whirled. His gun didn’t go off, but he yelped, startled, and shouted my name.

  I took aim and flung the ashtray at him.

  “Grab his gun, Frazier!” I shouted as the ashtray left my hand.

  So much for my big league baseball fantasies. The ashtray got him in the neck, not the head. It didn’t have the impact I’d hoped for. He didn’t drop the gun, but he did turn toward me and, as he turned, he was off balance. Frazier moved much faster than I would have thought possible. He grabbed Greene’s gun and then gave Greene’s wrist a savage twist. I came running. None of this was pretty. Frazier was screaming hysterically, Greene was clumsily trying to rain blows on Frazier’s head with his free hand and I stumbled over my own feet as I lunged for Greene. The gun discharged again. My clumsiness saved me.

  My momentum continued to carry me forward. I slammed into Greene and swung a wild punch at his head. It got him in the ear. I doubt it hurt him much, but it sure pissed him off. And when he got pissed, he got sloppy. He lunged at me, the gun dangling from a single finger. Frazier tore it from his hand and then slammed a punch into Greene’s face. He had quite a poke for an older man. And that was it.

  “Now you stay right there, you son of a

  bitch,” Frazier said. He pointed the gun straight at Greene’s face. “I’m going to march you outside, Greene. And I’m going to make sure nobody hurts you. I don’t want this town of mine to get a reputation for having a bunch of trigger-happy bigots in it. I’m going to make sure you get to the jail safe and sound and I’m going to make sure Sykes treats you right or I’m going to kick his ass from one side of this state to the other. And I’m also going to see that you get as fair a trial as possible. And then I’m going to have the satisfaction of
you spending one hell of a long time in a cage where you belong. You understand me, son?”

  Greene just glared at him. It was over for him and Greene knew it. He seemed smaller now, less menacing, than at any time I’d ever known him. There was defeat mixed with anger now and I think even Frazier sensed this. When he spoke again, his voice was much softer. “I can’t stop you from telling people about the time you spent with my daughter. It won’t do her reputation any good, though, and if you love her as much as you say you do, then you’ll think that over. For her sake.” Then, “And for your son’s sake, too, don’t forget. You really want him to know you were in love with some other woman?”

  “For your sake, you mean,” Greene sneered.

  “Big fancy man like yourself with a daughter sleepin’ with a nigger.”

  “All right then. For my sake. And hers. For all our sakes.”

  Greene glared at him some more. Then he swung his giant head away.

  Frazier looked down at his gun.

  “McCain, you go to the front door and tell Sykes I’m bringing Greene out and if anybody tries anything funny, he’s going to answer to me.”

  “I’ll tell him,” I said.

  I looked at Greene. He was staring at the floor, his shoulders slumped.

  I walked down the hallway toward the lights in the front yard. I was thinking about the talk of abortion. Where had Susan gotten hers? And where was my sister, Ruthie, tonight?

  The lights in front were stronger now. There were more of them. There were also more people. It was starting to look like a football crowd. Only they didn’t want to settle for games. They wanted the real thing.

  I crunched pieces of glass as I

  walked to the front door and opened it.

  “Sykes!” I yelled before turning the corner where the crowd could see me. I didn’t want some yokel thinking I was Greene. “It’s me, McCain.” I had my hands up.

  “Hold your fire!” Sykes shouted over his bullhorn.

  I felt stupid, my hands up in the air and all, like one of the guys Robert Stack catches every week on The Untouchables, but I kept them there in case one of the more enthusiastic members of the mob got any ideas.

  Sykes walked over to me.

  “No deals,” he said.

  “No deals? What deals?”

  “No deals with your colored friend.”

  “Nobody’s asking for any deals.”

  “What was all the gunfire?”

  “Nothing much,” I said. “The important thing is Frazier’s bringing Greene out. Frazier’s got a gun and he’s in good shape. He just wants to make sure nobody—the crowd or you—tries anything on Greene.”

  “Me?” he snapped. “I’m the law here.

  I’ll do what I damned well please.”

  “That part of the oath you take when you’re chief?

  “I’ll do what I damned well please”?”

  But he was already moving away from me, putting the bullhorn to his mouth, instructing everyone to move back, saying that Frazier and Greene were coming out.

  He also told them not to do anything stupid and to keep their mouths shut when Frazier and Greene appeared. I had to admit, for once he was doing a competent job as a cop.

  I headed on to my car up the hill. I wanted to get back to town. I needed to find Ruthie. I also needed to call Judge Whitney and bring her up to date.

  A couple of out-of-town reporters rushed me and tried to get me to talk but I just kept on moving. One of them put his hand on my shoulder.

  I spun around and faced him and he shrunk away.

  Maybe all those teenage days of trying to look like Robert Ryan were paying off.

  I was about twenty yards from my car when I saw a somewhat familiar form emerging out of thick fog.

  Rita Havers, Doc Novotony’s

  secretary at the morgue. She wore a leather car coat with the collar up and jeans. She also wore a jaunty little golf cap. She

  was proof that a woman well into her forties could easily still be damned good-looking. Fog encased her like iridescent coils illumined by moonlight, lending her an almost extraterrestrial radiance. The dampness was even worse now. A lot of people with arthritis would be having a bad bone-chilled night.

  “Hi, McCain,” she said.

  “Hi.”

  “Doc’s busy at the hospital so he sent me here to see what was going on. He always counts on me to help him out.”

  “It’s all over.”

  “Nobody dead?”

  “Nobody dead.”

  She smiled. “Good. Now I can go back home. Jack Paar’s got Eddie Fisher on tonight. I’m a big Eddie Fisher fan.”

  Her earlier words came back. “You said “he can always count on me.””

  “Uh-huh. Doc Novotony.”

  “When I was in the morgue, you said that about somebody else.”

  “I did?”

  “Yeah, don’t you remember? You said that there was somebody your cousin could always count on. That he never let her down.”

  “Oh,” she said, “yes.” Obviously

  remembering now. “I never should have said that.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, you know. It’s family business.

  Private family business.”

  “You said she was pregnant and he helped her out.”

  She shook her head and then looked with sudden longing at the crowd. She wanted to be down there with them. She wanted to be anywhere except here with me, answering questions about private family matters. “I’ve got to go.”

  I touched her arm. “This could be very important, Rita. Where did she get her abortion?”

  “McCain, look, you’re really putting me on the spot here.”

  “I mean to put you on the spot, Rita.

  It’s very important that I know that name.”

  She looked longingly downhill to the lights and the crowd. You could tell by a sudden hush that Frazier and Greene had appeared. They hadn’t gotten the bloodshed they’d wanted but at least they’d gotten something. A colored man arrested.

  Maybe Sykes would work him over later.

  “Please, Rita. Please help me.”

  She sighed. “It was Jim.”

  “Jim?”

  “You know. Jim the handyman.”

  “He did the abortion?” The name, the personal style, the way he was perceived by the community—none of it fit. Jim the handyman was Jim the abortionist?

  “Yes. She said he laughed about it. How he was a handyman in every sense of the word.”

  “Jim,” I said. “Jim the handyman.” I thought of all the medical supplies he’d bought at the Rexall earlier. Maybe they weren’t for his animal menagerie. Maybe they were for the girls he aborted.

  I kissed her on the cheek and ran back up to my car.

  Part Iii

  Twenty-six

  There’s an area on the edge of town that reminds me of my one and only trip to beautiful New England. Narrow, spiraling roads with trees set very near the gravel. Hollows that reap fog so thick you can’t even see the lights of farmhouses. A lot of dense hardwood forests that glow with the moonlight trapped in the fog that drips from the trees like moss.

  I kept the ragtop in second gear all the way. A couple of times, the fog-mazed roads curving abruptly, I nearly ended up in the ditch. I kept the radio off. I needed to concentrate on my driving.

  The owl song didn’t make the foggy night any cheerier. Nor did the coyote cries. The car continued to grope its way to Jim’s.

  I slowed down every time I saw a country mailbox, looking for Jim’s place.

  I used my spotlight on six metal

  mailboxes before I found the right one. There were no lights buried in the fog. But the box identified Jim the Handyman along with his address.

  I pulled the car over to the edge of a gully; I didn’t want to turn in the drive, let him know I was coming. I also didn’t want anybody to run into it and kill themselves—or damage the ragtop.


  I grabbed the flashlight out of the glove compartment. Clicked it on. Nothing. I tried the same trick as the kid at the Dx station: I whomped it against my hand. Light flickered on and off. I whomped it harder. The bulb lit up full glow and stayed steady. This whomping business couldn’t be underestimated.

  The fog was a damp hand, pressed clammy across my face. I couldn’t see three feet ahead. The owl again, and the coyote, and the tramp and crack of my footsteps on gravel.

  I started up the drive. I had to sneak in.

  If he heard me, he might panic and accidentally kill Ruthie. I kept thinking of the poor girl in the canoe.

  I’d only been to Jim’s once. He had a large frame house with a long, shallow front porch. He had refrigerators and parts of furnaces and lawn mowers and Tv sets and all other kinds of junk on the porch. He’d mentioned that these were “dead” items, the ones on the porch, and that he’d be hauling them to the dump soon. He then expressed his displeasure about how the dump was run.

  I doubted that any of the dead items had been hauled away as yet. He’d said this four or five years ago. I tramped on. I kept waiting for the outline of the house to impress itself on the shifting fog. But nothing. I was in the netherworld.

  It took me a while to reach the house. I knew I was near because of the smells. These were smells of a meal cooked, a tobacco pipe smoked, of oil and metal rust and sweet sawn lumber.

  I stumbled on the first porch step. I didn’t make much noise, fortunately. I went up the rest of the steps on my hands first, groping, exploring. Far within the house, I heard voices. But they were so muffled, I couldn’t tell who they belonged to, or what was being said.

  When I was on the porch, I stuck my right hand out and began slowly walking ahead, one careful step at a time. No lights shone from inside. The fog was blinding even on the porch.

  I touched a screen door, my fingers

  running down its coarse surface. The screening was loose enough so that I could push it against the inside door and feel if there was a window. I couldn’t remember what the wooden door looked like. It felt like a slab of pine.

  If the screen door made noise, Jim would likely hear it. But I didn’t have much choice.