by Ed Gorman
I want to give you something tomorrow. Want you to keep it for me.
In the chaos of the past few hours, I'd forgotten what Conners had said to me yesterday at the Khrushchev visit. Want you to keep it for me. Was this what the tough guy was looking for? And, just maybe, could it also be the same thing Conners might have been murdered for? And, if so, what the hell was it?
I stood upright. My breathing was almost regular again. Watching him, I realized I wanted to kill him. Literally. I don't have thoughts like that very often and didn't know what to do with them when I had them. He was right, I was just a shitkicker, and shitkickers don't go around killing people. But in his case, I'd make an exception. He'd hurt my body a lot but even more he'd hurt my pride. The body heals; pride doesn't.
He was just closing the closet door - "Looks like you 'n me need to have a talk, hayseed - " when the office door opened and there stood Cliffie.
For the first and only time I was happy to see him. I wanted him to throw this bastard in jail and keep him there for a good long time. He'd broken into Conners's office, if nothing else.
I'd just opened my mouth to tell Cliffie about him when the tough guy said, "Hey, Cliff, we still on for that steak dinner tonight?"
"You're damned right we are," Cliffie said. "The missus went to the beauty parlor and everything."
"Too bad I don't have my own missus along," the tough guy said.
Cliffie said, "See you've met McCain."
"Not exactly." The tough guy revealed his teeth again and pushed his hand out to shake.
I kept both my hands at my sides. "Arrest this prick."
"McCain," Cliffie said, as if I'd finally lost my mind, "do you know who this man is?" I heard something rare in Cliffie's voice. Reverence. This was somebody Cliffie actually admired.
"Yeah, I know who he is. He's the guy who broke into Conners's office."
"And got a little rough," the tough guy said. "I think I hurt his feelings. You know how sensitive short people are."
Cliffie smiled. "Sorry I missed that part of it. I get a little rough with him every once in a while myself." Then: "For the record, McCain, the man you're insulting is an FBI agent."
"Bullshit," I said.
"What's that supposed to mean?" Cliffie said.
"It means he's not an FBI agent."
"Oh, no? Show him, Mr. Rivers."
"Please. Not Mr. Rivers. I'm one of those agents who likes to work with local law enforcement as equals. Remember?"
Cliffie looked mightily pleased. Gary Cooper couldn't have delivered that last speech any better. "All right, go ahead and show the little prick your ID."
Which he did. I stared at the badge and the ID - Karl Rivers - and I still said, "Bullshit."
"Bullshit what?" Cliffie said.
"He's not an FBI man."
"Then where'd he get the ID?"
"You're starting to make me angry, Mr. McCain," Rivers said. "It's one thing to dislike me. It's another to question my credentials. Cliff here is the law in this town, and if my ID is good enough for him, I'd expect it to be good enough for you."
"He wants something of Conners, Sykes. He's up to something."
Cliffie said, "Of course he wants something of Conners. That's why he's here. The Agency's been trying to nail Conners for years. The fucking commie." Not lost on my ever-sensitive ear was the term "the Agency." Rivers had turned Cliffie into a junior FBI agent.
I knew there was no use arguing.
No use arguing at all.
"I hope I get a chance to buy you a drink sometime, Mr. McCain," Rivers said, as I walked out the door.
***
I had a couple of beers. One thing you can say about our little town is you've certainly got your choice of taverns. This particular one had a lot of songs from the forties on the jukebox. I like hearing them because they remind me of my mom and dad and that time right after the war when he was always bringing her little gifts, as if he had to court her all over again. And in a way, I suppose he did. He'd been gone for a long time and several of his friends had been killed and the dad who went wasn't exactly the dad who came back. He bought himself one good suit at J. C. Penney's and by God from 1946 to 1948 that suit was on his back three nights a week. Their favorite night out was on the dance boat Moonglow: a big dance floor with a small bar, a couple of rest rooms, and an upper deck where you could sit and watch the stars. It was a special night when you went on the Moonglow. Women wore corsages and men wore shoes so new they squeaked.
I was thinking about all this stuff because I didn't want to think about what I really wanted to think about. Namely how Rivers - and I doubted that was his name - had unmanned me. I don't mind losing a fight if I get in a few good punches. I've never been tough and I never will be. But I always make them pay for the privilege of beating the crap out of me. That way, they get the satisfaction of spilling some blood - mine - and I get the satisfaction of knowing I'm not a coward. So I had a couple of beers and thought about all the ways I could restore my manhood. I could drown him, burn him, hang him, disembowel him, suffocate him, run over him, throw him off a cliff, strangle him, stab him, shoot him, throw him in a snake pit, or make him listen to Liberace records. The trouble was, none of those alternatives seemed sufficiently nasty.
Most of the talk at the bar was about Conners's murder. You have to admire that in small towns. They give murder its due. In big cities, most murders get reported on page 17, if they get reported at all. But here we give them proper respect. A life has been taken. The entire town knows and honors it by talking about it. It is a seminal and communal experience for the most heinous of sins.
What surprised me was the goodwill these workingmen had for Conners. They didn't talk about his Jaguar or his philandering or his haughtiness. They talked about how hard he'd always stood for the common man. How he'd fought big business and how he'd seen to it that Iowa got drought relief and flood relief and medical care. And how his speeches stirred real passion at Memorial Day salutes to fallen soldiers. And how, when agribusiness started buying up small farms (in many cases, secretly arranging with city banks to pull loans that would force the small farms out of business), he had gone to the state legislature and whipped up the senators and representatives who wouldn't accept the bribes the big agribusiness companies were offering. And the same with strikes. He was despised by businessmen and they were always hanging the "commie" charge around his neck. He might drive a Jaguar but he never forgot where he came from.
I'd planned on two beers. But I had three. And I felt better. Screw Rivers. No matter who he was or what he was after, he couldn't take Conners's legend away from him. I even started feeling sentimental about Conners, forgetting how much I'd despised him in some ways. Beer will do that to you. So will tales of a single man standing up against the power brokers.
***
I'd never felt embarrassed about seeing Mrs. Goldman before. We were good friends. Two or three times a week, she'd have me down for supper and we'd usually end up watching TV for a couple of hours on her new RCA console. It was a honey. We liked detective shows - the Warner Brothers ones especially, like "77 Sunset Strip."
But I felt pretty stupid tonight. This morning, drunk and all, I'd acted like a high school kid. Now I had a box of candy and six red roses in my hands as I came into the vestibule. I was about to tuck the chocolates under my arm so I could knock when the door opened up and there stood Mrs. Goldman. She had the figure of a much younger woman, and it never looked better than in jeans and a man's white button-down shirt. Especially when she wore a cute little red bow on the right side of her head.
The spaghetti she was cooking reminded me that I hadn't eaten much today. She was one hell of a cook.
I started to say I was sorry but she stopped me. "You don't owe me an apology. You had a perfectly good reason for getting drunk. Your heart was broken." Then she smiled. "But the story doesn't end there."
"What story, Mrs. Goldman?"
"You and Pamel
a."
"Pamela?"
"Guess who's upstairs in your apartment?"
"You're kidding."
"About half an hour ago, she knocked on my door and asked if I'd let her in. Which was kind of funny because I thought I'd heard noises before that. Must be those mice you're always telling me about."
We have this running joke about my rent being lowered because of the mice - some of which, I claim from time to time, are the size of ponies.
"Anyway, she's waiting for you up there."
"I wonder what's wrong."
"Gosh, McCain. Look on the bright side. Maybe she decided you're the one she really loves."
I wouldn't allow myself to even think about it. I'm the one she really loves after all. Sure, and Dick Nixon has a portrait of Trotsky hanging in his office.
I pushed the candy and roses at her. "I am sorry about this morning."
She leaned forward and kissed me on the cheek, leaned far enough that her left breast brushed against me. Her breasts weren't particularly big but they sure were nice. "You're crazy, you know that? You can't afford things like this."
"My pleasure." I looked up the stairs leading to my second-floor apartment. "Wish me luck."
"Just remember." She laughed. "I love weddings."
"I'll be sure and mention that to her."
"Good luck. And thanks for the flowers."
The stairs. And Pamela waiting at the top of them. But why? Not that she didn't drop by from time to time, she did. But not at this time of day. And she never stayed if I wasn't there. Could it be possible that Mrs. Goldman was right? That Pamela had finally perceived me as the truly wonderful guy I really am, superior in all ways (except for being able to beat the shit out of this phony FBI agent named Rivers) to all other beings of the male persuasion?
I wanted to dance up the stairs the way Donald O'Connor did in Singin' in the Rain and take her in my arms and kiss her as she'd never let me kiss her before.
But I was still aching from the run-in with Rivers and I needed to pee pretty bad and I had the beginnings of a headache. Other than that, I was a midwestern girl's dream man.
The door was unlocked. I pushed it inward. Darkness.
"What's that word they use in the movies for when somebody messes up your apartment while they're looking for something?" Pamela said from the couch.
"You mean tossed?"
"Right. Tossed. That's what somebody did to your apartment."
"Aw, shit."
"But don't turn on the light, OK? I need to talk to you and I can't do it if the lights're on. And I owe you about a third of a bottle of bourbon."
"That's a lot for you."
She giggled. Only then did I realize she was bombed. "And for you. You can't hold your liquor any better than I can." Then she said, "I shouldn't be laughing."
"Why not?"
"Have a drink with me first."
You have to appreciate how strange this all was. Her being let into my apartment. Her drinking my bourbon. Her getting drunk. I'd never seen her even tight before. Women who wear those cute little white gloves everywhere they go shouldn't be allowed to get drunk. It's against their charter.
I stumbled a couple times getting myself a glass, and I tripped getting back to the couch and the bottle. By then, my eyes had adjusted to the darkness. Pale moonlight gave a ghostly glow to her white slip. And that's all she appeared to be wearing.
She said, "I want you to make love to me."
"What?"
"You heard me."
"Pamela, are you all right?"
"All these years you've been begging me to make love and now I throw myself at you and you say no?"
"I'm not saying no, Pamela. I'm just trying to figure out what's going on here."
"I'm a home wrecker, that's what's going on here."
"You're not a home wrecker."
"Oh, yes, I am. Just like Barbara Stanwyck."
"I thought it was Alexis Smith."
"It was Alexis Smith. But I saw another movie last night. Barbara Stanwyck was an even bigger home wrecker than Alexis Smith." Then: "Pour yourself a drink."
I poured myself a drink.
"Do you have the things?"
"Things?"
"You know, Trojans."
"Pamela, we really should talk first."
"All these years, McCain, all these years. And you finally get your chance and you say no… Oh, God."
"What?"
"I'm going to be sick."
"I'll help you."
"No! I don't want you to see me sick, for God's sake. That's what'd come to your mind every time you saw me."
"No, it wouldn't. I've helped lots of people puke."
"That isn't something I'd brag about."
She barely made it. She tripped too, over stuff that had been strewn across the floor by an intruder. He'd even left a faint stench behind. Honoring my commitment to live in a cave, I found a flashlight in my kitchenette drawer (don't you love that word, kitchenette?) and started tallying up the damage. Tender and loving he hadn't been. At least the cats were okay. I found them cowering under the bed. He went through drawers, firing everything back over his shoulder. He went in, around, and through all the furniture. And he had no hesitation about dumping out my sugar and flour, looking for whatever hidden treasure drove him onward.
As for Pamela, she was real serious about me not participating in her vomiting. She ran both faucets and the shower, which blocked out all other sounds. She was in there a good twenty minutes, during which time I picked up the phone and called the Judge.
She had one of her midweek cocktail parties going, mostly other judges and lawyers from Cedar Rapids and Iowa City. Men of the Republican species, mostly. Her man Abernathy took my call. "At the moment, she's showing Judge Reinhold how to cha-cha."
"Tell her it's important."
"Between you and me, I think she has a crush on Judge Reinhold."
"Ah. How sweet. Interrupt her anyway."
She came on the line a few minutes later. "McCain, I realize that you're not acquainted with the folkways of civilized people, but seven-thirty-five in the evening is a vulgar time to be interrupting." She was flying high on brandy and the charms of Judge Reinhold, whoever he might be.
"I need you to call your friend J. Edgar and confirm an agent of his."
"And this can't wait till tomorrow?"
"You're in court from eight on. He'll be busy and you'll be busy and it'll be another day before this guy gets identified."
She sighed. "All right." I could hear loud cha-cha music in the background. "Give me the man's name."
I gave her Rivers's full name. I also gave her a description. The music continued to blare. I imagined all those judges doing the cha-cha in their black robes.
"I'll call him first thing in the morning."
I said, "So how're you and Judge Reinhold getting along?"
"That damned Abernathy. He's worse than Louella Parsons. Gossip gossip gossip. We're just good friends. We belong to the same riding club here and the same yachting club in Florida. Now, is there anything else your dirty little mind would like to know?"
***
Pamela was still in the john. I turned on the TV. Two cowboy shows and a detective show. I turned it off. Couldn't concentrate on anything except the prospect of making love.
Since fourth grade I'd loved her. Emotionally I loved her, spiritually I loved her, sexually I loved her. And here was my chance - so why hadn't I just dragged her right across my messy floor into my messy bed?
She came out a very different girl than she'd gone in. Wore a button-down shirt of mine. Long golden hair now pulled back into a chignon. Exuding sobriety. I could tell all this even in the darkness. "You have a cigarette? I ran out."
"Sure." I gave her a cigarette.
"Mind if I make some coffee?"
"Not at all. But I've just got instant."
"That's fine." She put on the teakettle. Made herself a cup, silent all the while. W
ent back and sat down on the couch.
"You figured it out yet?" she said.
"Figured what out yet?"
"Why I'm here?"
"I guess not."
She sighed and took another sip of coffee. Picked up another Lucky from my pack. I extended my Zippo lighter.
She sat back against the couch, closed her eyes, smoked her cigarette. The shirttails didn't extend far down her legs. I could see her panties. Lust was getting the best of me.
"He went home and told his wife about me and then she told him about an affair she'd been having, and then they both realized what terrible people they'd been as spouses and as parents. So practically in the middle of the night, they went to see their pastor - you know that Episcopalian, Reverend Loughgren - and they told him everything and he blessed them and now they're happily married again. My reputation is zilch in this town now. Zilch. And I come from a good family, too."
No tears. No dramatics. She sort of laid it all out, in fact. "So what do I do? I come over here and sit around practically naked and offer myself to you. Now that makes a lot of sense, doesn't it? Thanks for not taking me up on it. You're a real gentleman. It wouldn't have meant anything to me, and I know you don't want it that way."
"Well," I said. "Well, well, well."
"I mean, I just wanted to hurt him. But I see now that if I'd gone to bed with you, I'd just have ended up hurting myself."
I think I probably threw in several more "well, well, well's" somewhere along the way. But I was speaking on automatic pilot. Because if I'd ever needed the cold slap of confirmation, she'd just given it to me. The slap that said she didn't love me romantically and never would.
Then she said, "You know what I'd like to do, though?"
"What?"
"Could we just lie down and you just hold me?"
God, was she hard to figure out.
"I mean, we'd keep our clothes on and everything."
"Oh." It was going to be like high school again, you lying beside her and every time you brush against her - your body just one giant erection - she says, in the voice of a much put-upon saint, "Please, McCain, I thought we were just going to lie here and not do anything."
