Wake Up Little Susie sm-2

by Ed Gorman

  “You framed him then too. Because of your sister.”

  His features froze. “I take it he’s your client now?”

  “He is.”

  “So he’ll have ample opportunity to tell you a lot of lies about my poor sister. Did he also tell you that he raped her and that’s how she became pregnant?”

  “If he raped her, why didn’t you charge him with it?”

  “And put my own sister through a rape trial?

  I happen to love her very much.”

  “You think your sister would tell me that if I called her?”

  “If you do call her, McCain, you’ll be a very, very sorry man, believe me.” He paused and then said, “My uncle owns the plant where your father works. And I’m my uncle’s favorite nephew.”

  “I’ll mention our conversation to the union rep at the plant.”

  “Not even a union man can save his job if I put the word in Don’s ear.”

  I sighed. “Just when I think you couldn’t get any more despicable, Squires, you manage to come up with something worse. You lie awake nights planning this stuff?”

  “Yes.” The cold smile again. “When I’m not busy planning world domination.” He had a nice expensive watch and shot his cuff to peek at it. “My stomach tells me it’s lunchtime.”

  “That’s funny. My stomach tells me you make me sick.”

  I sat in a caf@e and had a cup of coffee and a wedge of apple pie with a piece of cheddar on it. I smoked three Luckies. I plotted what I was going to do to our friend Squires. You know how you start thinking of all these neat ways of getting rid of somebody. Mussolini would have been proud of some of the things I thought up.

  I was at a stoplight on my way to my office when the black Ford appeared. The mystery blonde in the black sunglasses looked more fetching than ever: white turtleneck, black silk head scarf, blood-red nail polish. That wry sexy smile. And that throbbing Chuck Berry music.

  The light changed.

  I floored it.

  I shouldn’t say I floored it, the entity in control of me floored it.

  Here I was, this hardworking young attorney trying to be mature and respectable when this being took possession of my body and made it do all sorts of crazy and degrading things-l, drag racing.

  I laid down twenty feet of black rubber.

  I beat her to the next stoplight and waited for her to catch up.

  This time, she discarded the smile. In its place was a pout. Pure Brigitte Bardot. She started jabbing the accelerator. Her glas-paks thundered. She was going to put me in my place.

  My glas-paks roared back at her.

  People on the corners stared at us: the red Ford; the black Ford. The erstwhile counselor-at-law; and the gorgeous girl.

  About to put the pedal to the metal.

  Red light…

  Yellow light…

  Green li-Which was when Cliffie pulled into view on his big Indian motorcycle catercorner from us.

  Wouldn’t he just love to give me a ticket so stiff it would let him yank my license for a year or two?

  The black Ford sped away faster than was strictly wise, given Cliffie’s hunger for ticketing people. He gave her the bad eye but didn’t move.

  She beat me to the next light and then disappeared again, turning an illegal right on red.

  School was getting out. I sat there waiting for the grade-schoolers in the crosswalk. Their clothes were new. The school year was only a couple of weeks old. I remembered what it was like, buying school clothes in August, your folks taking you to the department store all worried about the money they’d barely been able to scrape together. Buy good clothes had been my folks’ reasoning, they last longer. I always went for Buster Brown shoes as a tyke because of his dog Tige and Smilin’ Ed McConnell on the radio. I also liked clothes that either looked Western-because of Roy and Gene-or futuristic-because of the Flash Gordon serials they ran over and over at the Rialto.

  The new-shoe smell was almost as good as the new-car smell. And the first few times I wore them, I treated my clothes with the deference shown toward something Christ had personally blessed, careful of everything I ate and drank.

  Then the crosswalk was empty.

  This time, I didn’t lay rubber. I drove away like the nice respectable attorney I am.

  I smelled him before I saw him.

  I don’t suppose that’s a nice thing to say, even about Cliffie, but it’s true. There was just this odor, a kind of generalized Cliffie odor, wafting its way out the open window and my office door.

  I wondered how many other times he’d broken into my office.

  He had his cowboy-booted feet up on my desk, his campaign hat pushed back on his fat head, and a cigar butt stuffed into the corner of his mouth. He wore his holster rig complete with billy club.

  “What the hell’s that thing?” he said, pointing to the sprawl of gear on the coffee table.

  “A lie detector. Something I’d like to get you hooked up to sometime.”

  “I don’t need no lie detector. I just look a man straight in the eye. That’s all I need.”

  “My hero,” I said.

  He said, “You got troubles, counselor.”

  “I do, huh?”

  “You certainly do.”

  “Well, why don’t you make yourself comfortable, Chief, and tell me about them.”

  “You thinkin’ of suin’ me or some other lawyer bullshit like that, you just forget about it. I’m the law and I got a perfect right to be here.”

  I nodded to the Pepsi bottle and piece of waxed paper on my desk. “You got a perfect right to drink my Pepsi and eat my sandwich?”

  “That beef was a little tough.”

  “Gee, I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “You got to buy grade-A meat, counselor. Tastes a whole lot better than the gristle you been buyin’.”

  I sat down in one of the client chairs.

  “What the hell do you want, Cliffie?”

  That sat him up straight as I knew it would.

  I was sick of his ugly self parked in my chair. He was all things slothful. “I thought we agreed you wasn’t to call me that.”

  “When you break into my office, all bets’re off.”

  He had his elbows planted hard onto the surface of my desk. “You just like to rile me, don’t you, counselor?”

  I sighed. “Get to it. What the hell’re you doing here?”

  “Ok then,” he said, and extracted from his lips the wet cigar butt. “You been botherin’ a friend of mine.”

  “That being David Squires.”

  “Then you admit it?”

  “I don’t admit anything.” Then: “He tell you he hired me?”

  “What’re you talkin’ about? Why would Squires hire you?”

  “Because he killed his wife. And he thought maybe he might have left a couple of loose ends. Maybe a witness, or something dropped at the scene of the crime. He knew you’d be too stupid to figure it out so he hired me.”

  “Bullshit. He arranged for me to get that Lawman of the Year award last year from the Skeet Shooters Association over to Fort Madison.”

  “He was kissing your ass, Cliffie. You can help him. If you couldn’t, he wouldn’t even speak to you.”

  Cliffie was angry and hurt and confused.

  “Well, you can bet your ass I’m gonna ask him about that. About him hirin’ you.”

  He looked pretty bad just then, Cliffie did. Knowing you’ve been betrayed will do that to a person. Just saps all your strength and focus.

  He said, like a kid, “He really hired you?”

  Somehow I couldn’t take any more pleasure from hurting him. “It wasn’t anything really big.”

  “I mean, you don’t get Lawman of the Year award unless them fellas really think you’re doin’ your job.”

  “I expect not.”

  Then, trying to regain some dignity, he said, “But Chalmers was the one what killed her, that Squires girl.”

  I shook my head.
“I don’t think so. I don’t have proof yet, but I think I will have pretty soon. So before you arrest Chalmers, I’d appreciate it if you’d call me first.”

  He stood up. Rage had replaced hurt in those dog-brown dog-stupid eyes of his.

  “We’ll see how Mr. Fancy Squires likes it next time he wants a favor done and stupid ol’ me tells him no.”

  “That’s right. You’ve got to stand up for yourself.”

  “Just because I ain’t educated.”

  “Right.”

  “And just because I ain’t pretty like him.”

  “Right.”

  “And just because I got this here skin condition and can’t bathe often as I should.”

  “Right.”

  “And just because people think the only reason I got this job is because my old man runs the town.”

  “Right.”

  “Well, I’ll show Mr. Fancy.”

  “Damn right you will, Cliff. Damn right you will.”

  For just a moment there, I almost felt sorry for him. I almost forgot about the many times he’d billy-clubbed me and punched me and kicked me, just in the line of duty as he saw it, and the many times he’d cheated and railroaded and framed my clients. For a moment, I forgave him all of it. And then, being Cliffie, he had to go and disabuse me of my Christian charity.

  “Chalmers is the man, McCain.”

  “He didn’t have any reason to kill her.”

  “He hates Squires.”

  “Who doesn’t?”

  “Well, I guess that’s a good point. But he’s also an ex-con.”

  “So that automatically makes him the killer?”

  “McCain, I’ve read a lot about ex-cons. Hell, let’s face it, my family’s got a lot of ex-cons in it. Our family reunion looks like a prison yard.”

  He walked to the door.

  “I’m gonna be one busy boy, McCain.

  First I’m gonna meet up with our friend Squires and tell him what I think of him; then I’m gonna go arrest Chalmers. You can take that as fair warning.”

  A minute later, he fired up his Indian and was gone.

  The phone rang a few minutes later.

  Dick Keys.

  “Any word on Mary yet?”

  “Not yet, Dick. Thanks for asking.”

  “She’s sure a sweetheart. You give her folks my best.”

  “I sure will.”

  Hesitation. “I’m kind’ve embarrassed about somethin’, McCain.”

  “Oh? What’s that?”

  “I’ve got this employee, Merle

  Ramsdale? He served a little time for taking a car a few years ago, but I hired him here as a mechanic and he’s been a real good employee.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.” What was he getting at?

  “He was here Friday night, too, and he saw somethin’, and he shoulda stepped up to the plate before this. But you know how it is when you’re out on parole.

  You don’t want to get involved in anything you don’t have to.”

  “What’d he see?”

  “I’ll let him tell you. He’s standin’ right here.” Then he said, “Just tell him what you told me, Merle, and everything’ll be fine.”

  “I didn’t have anything to do with that killing, Mr. Keys.”

  “I know you didn’t, Merle.”

  “People think just because you’ve been in prison-”

  “Just talk to Mr. McCain, Merle. He’s a nice young lawyer.”

  The phone was handed off and Merle Ramsdale said, “Hi, Mr. McCain.”

  “Hi, Merle. I really appreciate you doing this.”

  “I just don’t want the parole office to think I had anything to do with the murder.”

  “I’m sure they won’t, Merle. Just relax and tell me what you saw.”

  “Well, I stepped outside to have a cigarette. It was a nice night and I’d been puttin’ in a lot of hours and I just thought some fresh air would do me good. And that’s when I saw him, when I was outside having a smoke.”

  “Saw who?”

  “The big guy.”

  “What’d he look like?”

  “Well, as I said, a big guy. Like a basketball player. But heavier. Stronger.”

  “You notice anything else about him? Kind of clothes he was wearing?”

  “Dark jacket of some kind. Zipper, I think. And dark pants. Nothing that really stood out.”

  “Anything else?”

  “His hair. There was a whole lot of it.

  Curly.”

  “The color?”

  “I think it was red. It was dark. He was over in the shadows. Back by the used cars.”

  “What’d he do when he saw you?”

  “Just kind of ducked down between a couple of cars.”

  “What’d you do?”

  “I shouted out, “You want some help with somethin’, mister?” I figured that’d chase him away.”

  “And did it?”

  “Yeah. He took off running.”

  “You see him again?”

  “Nope. But then I was inside until quittin’ time.”

  “You didn’t tell anybody about it?”

  “Wasn’t anybody around but me.”

  “The other mechanic?”

  “He was on dinner break.”

  “How about Susan Squires?”

  “Oh, she was there, but up front. Decorating the showroom. I didn’t want to bother her.”

  “And you haven’t told anybody about this till now?”

  “Uh-uh. Like I said, I want to stay away from the cops as much as I can. It’d look funny, me involved in some kind of thing like this. I just got married. My wife wouldn’t like it either. She won’t like this, me talkin’ to you. But it just kept stayin’ on my mind. You know how things get sometimes.”

  “Well, I appreciate this.”

  “I hope I’ve been helpful.”

  “You’ve been very helpful.”

  “I’ll put Mr. Keys back on.”

  “Thanks again, Merle.”

  “Don’t know if that was any help,” Keys said, when he came back on, “but I thought you should know.”

  I thanked him and hung up.

  So young Dr. Jensen had paid Susan a visit at the Ford dealership Friday night just before she was killed.

  I wondered how he’d explain it.

  I tried his number twice. Nothing. Then I tried the Illinois number and got no answer there either.

  I wanted to go looking for Mary, but in the past two days I’d covered the entire town, talked to a good fifty people, followed up every lead and partial lead that’d been offered me. And nothing.

  I spent half an hour trying to rig up the lie detector. It was like a Martian trying to plug in a Venusian appliance, to borrow a phrase from Galactic Adventures, one of the magazines I’d read as a kid.

  I was just getting ready to go home for the day when I decided to give the Illinois number another try.

  A female voice said, “Carmichael residence.”

  “My name’s McCain. I’m a lawyer in

  Black River Falls, Iowa.”

  “Oh, Lord.”

  “Ma’am?”

  “This is about the taillight, isn’t it?”

  “Why, yes, ma’am, it is.”

  “I told Ronnie he should’ve made her turn it in.”

  “Ronnie being-”

  “My son. He was over there visiting my sister.”

  “I see. And your sister is-?”

  “Amy Masters-Squires is her married name.”

  “You said, “He should’ve made her turn it in.” She was driving the car?”

  “Yes. She was having some kind of trouble with hers so she borrowed his.”

  “I see.”

  “You know about her ex-husband then?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “He was a peach. Any man tried to beat me up, I’d be out of there in two minutes flat.”

  “That’s how she should have handled it.”

  “It su
re is. I expect Ronnie back in an hour or so.”

  “I’ll call later.” I didn’t want to tell her that she’d just told me the best part of her story: the ex-wife at the murder scene.

  “It may be tomorrow.”

  “If you see that sister of mine, tell her I’m thinking about it.”

  “I sure will. And thanks for your help.”

  “You bet.”

  A few minutes later, I was on my way home.

  Fourteen

  I’ve found that the true gourmet chef learns to mix and blend prime ingredients in new and interesting ways. All you need is a hot plate.

  Take Dinty Moore Beef Stew and a small can of creamed corn: a rare delight.

  Or a can of Campbell’s Mushroom Soup and a can of Foster’s Small Potatoes: exquisite. Or a can of tuna fish and a can of tomatoes: Voil@a! Two more rules: always serve everything with potato chips, and, if the main dish leaves something to be desired, douse liberally with ketchup. If ketchup can’t kill an offending taste, then you’ve created a gourmet meal that God did not intend to be created.

  Such are the ways of bachelorhood.

  I was eating a tuna-and-tomato sandwich in the easy chair so I could watch Tv when Tasha, Crystal, and Tess fanned out at my stockinged feet and look up at me with imploring eyes, the effect of the tuna being not unlike that of, apparently, catnip. They rubbed me, they yowled at me, they head-butted me, they tail-switched me. I kept nodding in the direction of the bowls of kitty food I’d just set out for them. I reminded them that they didn’t even technically belong to me (a local girl who’d gone to Hollywood had left them in my care), so any largesse on my part was all the more remarkable. They were unimpressed with my argument.

  I had a headful of confusion. Squires was the most likely killer. But what had Todd Jensen and Amy Squires been doing at the murder scene?

  I washed up, changed into a work shirt and chinos, and went out the door. Which was when the phone rang, and I had to go back inside.

  “McCain?”

  “Yeah.” It was Cliffie.

  “Guess where I am?”

  “Where?”

  “The Sixth Street elevator.”

  “Good for you.”

  “Meet me at the bottom as soon as you can.”

  “Any special reason?”

  “Yeah. We’re gonna take a ride.”