Collected Stories

by Lewis Shiner

  “What sort of trouble?”

  “Well, my typing’s not very good.” She showed me her dimples. “But I have a nice telephone voice, and a good memory.”

  Her flirting was irritating, not so much on a personal level, but because she didn’t seem to be able to turn it off. “How did you finally get hired?” I asked, leaning back and propping my head up with one arm.

  “Mr. Crabtree needed somebody one day while I was there trying to get in, and took me. He didn’t even know I wasn’t in the pool. Then they sort of had to let me in. It’s complicated. Like a union, sort of.” She finished her drink and went over to get another one. “Sure you won’t join me?” she asked.

  I shook my head. The inertia was starting to get to me, and I felt like I was wasting my time. The woman was shallow and a little on the cheap side, but she didn’t strike me as a killer. She lit another cigarette and I asked her about the lighter.

  “Did that belong to Jason?”

  She looked down at it as if she’d never seen it before. “I suppose so,” she said. The whiskey seemed to be affecting her. “The Thundermugs...must have been his outfit, huh?”

  She reminded me of a high-school kid just out for the summer. She seemed disjointed, adrift in the moment. It was all a big vacation, and Jason King had paid the bill, first in publicity and now with his life.

  By the third drink she was talking about King without being prompted. She had the conversation under her arm and was running with it.

  “He was a nice man. Not a big spender, but not a tightwad. He’d take me out sometimes. Sometimes we’d go to his house. He lives out by the lake. Once we went down to the beach by his house, it was late at night, and we made love right there, in front of God and everybody,”

  I’d had enough. I stood up and looked around for my coat.

  “You can knock it off now, Ms. Desmond,” I said. “You were no more Jason King’s mistress than I was. You don’t know enough about him to talk for a full minute without repeating yourself There’s no beach by King’s house. There’s a rocky ledge, but believe me lady, I wouldn’t try it. The reporter that bought your story should be kicked out on his ass.”

  She sat up, stunned. She looked as though I’d hit her. “Now look here,” she said, her words a little slurred. “I don’t want that kind of language in this house.”

  “Did you come up with this little scheme on your own or did somebody put you up to it?” I walked over to her, but not close enough to have to smell the whiskey.

  “I think you should get out,” she snarled. “Mother!” Her voice got shrill and I put my coat on.

  “Call me if you change your mind,” I said, and stalked out of the house.

  Driving back to the office, I made a quick recap. If the Desmond woman was out, that left me high and dry. I had two suspects left, the kid who’d hired me and the woman I was supposed to clear. I’d scored one point though, since Marion King’s motive was pretty well shot. Charlene Desmond’s story couldn’t have held water at the bottom of the ocean, and I doubted that Mrs. King would have fallen for it.

  I parked around the corner from my office and went into the GM Steakhouse. After a $2.07 sirloin and a large milk I was in a better mood. After all, I had a client and a hundred dollars. What could go wrong?

  The phone was ringing when I got back to the office. I caught it in time, and heard Winslow’s voice.

  “Found out who our bathing beauty was,” he said. “His name was Ernie Singleton. He was a grunt in Korea, lost the leg there. Last residence was Dayton, Ohio. No relatives, no friends, no nothin’.”

  “So why did he come here?” I asked.

  “To drown, looks like.”

  “Ha ha, I got a hot one for you, now. The King sex scandal was a put-up job.”

  “That’s not too funny. You got proof?”

  “I don’t need it. The chick is as phony as a three-dollar bill. She’d never wash in court.”

  “Well maybe the wife believed her.”

  “Hey look,” I said, “I’ve heard of blind justice, but don’t you think you’re carrying this a bit too far? Don’t you even want to check this out?”

  I listened to a long silence on the other end of the wire, then Winslow said, “Uh, something’s come up. I’ll get back to you, okay?” and he was gone.

  I held the dead receiver in my hand for a minute, then hung up and dialed the Austin American Statesman. “City desk, please.”

  I had time to tap my fingers on the desk a couple of times and scratch my nose, then a voice said, “Hello?”

  “Bennie? This is Dan.”

  “Let’s see...Dan...Dan...”

  “Don’t rub it in, I’m sorry. I’ve just been out of circulation for a while.”

  “I’ll say. Did you marry her?”

  “No. I got out at the last minute. It was close, though. Listen, I may have a story for you in a bit. I need some information first, though. Like who would a county commissioner have for an enemy?”

  “A bad enough enemy to bump him off, you mean? I thought the wife did it.”

  “Maybe not that bad. Maybe just bad enough to throw a little dirt on him.”

  Bennie whistled. “That way, huh? Okay, I can give you a list. How long you got?”

  “Just hit the high points.”

  “A county commissioner wears a lot of hats, friend. To start with, of course, it could be somebody who lost an election to him, or thinks he could take over the job. Or one of the other commissioners. But what you’re after probably has to do with county contracts.”

  “Whoa. What sort of contracts?”

  “Mainly roads, but all the contracts are let through Commissioner’s Court. That includes libraries, parks, hospitals, you name it.”

  “Good. What else?”

  “Commissioners appoint county officials, run the welfare department, handle the budget and all that. Each commissioner is responsible for the roads in his precinct, and since King used to be in construction, you’ve got a tie in there. He could have brought along some old enemies when he moved up. Let’s see, there’s a bond issue coming up, but the contracts on that haven’t been given out yet, so I’m afraid that’s no help.”

  “It’s help,” I said, “but I wish you could have narrowed it down a bit more.”

  “That’s the breaks, kid. Now what about that scoop?”

  “I’ll let you know. ‘Bye.”

  So there I sat. Not at a dead end, but facing an endless field of possibility. The bond issue may or may not have been important; it had been on his desk when he was killed, but I had no way of knowing what it meant.

  I looked at my cards, and I was holding no suspects, no clues, and didn’t even have a long suit. It was time to get some help.

  6.

  I still had friends at the county jail, and they hustled Marion King into a visitor’s booth for me in no time at all. I could tell from her bearing that she was merely allowing the guard to lead her. She had a lot of dignity and authority in her walk. They were obviously treating her with respect; she was still in her street clothes and her long brown hair was neatly brushed out. Her eyes looked dull and resigned, but she gave me a weary smile anyway. “My guard thinks pretty highly of you,” she said. She was naturally gracious, had an instinctive ability to put people at their ease.

  “I try to get along,” I smiled. She was a handsome woman, with a sort of strength that denied the years that were visible in her face. She settled herself in the chair beyond the glass and waited.

  “I’m not sure where to start,” I said, “but if it means anything to you, I know your husband was not involved with Charlene Desmond.”

  Her mouth made an ugly line across her face. “Tell me something new. Jason would no more have had that tramp for a mistress than he would have robbed a bank. He just didn’t have it in him.”

  “Just how do you mean that?” I asked, intrigued by the hint of resentment in her tone.

  She sighed. “You’ve met Jeff, so I t
hink you can understand. Jason was very much like Jeff, without the religious mania. That’s why they didn’t get along—they were so similar. Both of them were so demanding, so harsh, even toward themselves. There were times when I wished Jason would have taken a mistress, anything, just to get him out of his shell. But I’m sure you didn’t come here to listen to my discontents.” She was the hostess again, detached from her surroundings.

  “On the contrary. I’ll take any information I can get right now. Do you have any idea who might have killed your husband?”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Sloane, but I never kept up with my husband’s business.”

  “Couldn’t it have been somebody from his personal life?”

  “What personal life? If he had someone over to the house it was either in connection with the county or with his construction work.”

  “He was still active in construction, then?”

  “Only as a consultant. Anything else would have constituted conflict of interest. Not that he couldn’t have gotten away with it, of course, this is Texas, but my husband was a very scrupulous man.”

  “Why did you move out on him, then, if you’ll pardon my asking?”

  “I didn’t move out. I went to stay with my sister because she was ill. Jason hardly cared whether I was there or not, and both of us knew the scandal was nonsense. I saw no reason to stay around simply to avoid gossip.”

  “I’d like to talk with your sister. Where does she live?”

  “Off Cameron Road, north of the airport.” She gave me the address. “Her name is Jenny Shaw. She lives alone. That’s why she needed me.”

  I was silent for a moment, looking at the sunlight through the intersecting lines of the barred window.

  “Do you—” Her voice caught and she cleared her throat. “Do you think they’ll convict me?”

  I shrugged. “It would help if you’d tell me what you know.”

  She looked me in the eyes and said, “I already have.” It was not too bad, but she shouldn’t have pulled her eyes away at the end. I stared at her for a minute, but it was no use. I wasn’t going to get anything more out of her.

  “If you think of anything else that might help at all, tell your guard. She’ll get word to me somehow.” I couldn’t shake the feeling that she was hiding something, but I had no clue as to how to get at it.

  The sergeant at the desk let me use the phone. “Jeffrey? This is Dan Sloane.”

  “How are you? Any news?” He didn’t sound particularly concerned.

  He and Winslow had both given me scenarios of the murder, and now a third one was taking shape in my mind. It was ugly, and I wanted to get rid of it. It started with Jeff waiting till the house was empty on Thursday night to confront his father. They quarreled, Jason walked away, and Jeff reached for the gun. The he stopped and wrapped his hand in a handkerchief so he wouldn’t leave any prints...

  No. No soap. People who shoot in anger worry about prints afterward, not before. Still, he seemed to have a real martyrdom compulsion, and people have been known to hire detectives to punish themselves. In more ways than one.

  “Your friend the scarlet woman didn’t do it,” I said. “Your father never gave her anything but letters to type. And not many of those, from what I hear.”

  “It seems I’ve made a serious mistake. And it’s too late to rectify it.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I had an awful, sinking feeling that the kid was about to confess. I held on tight to the receiver,

  “He has cursed his father...his blood is upon him.”

  “Jeffrey, have you got an alibi?”

  “I beg your pardon?” He sounded like I’d just woken him up.

  “Where were you when your father was killed?”

  “With a bible study group.”

  “Can you prove it?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “Nothing,” I said. “Never mind. “ I sighed, a little, and began to understand what Marion King had been talking about. If his quotations didn’t get me, his self-righteousness would. I decided to give him written reports from that point on. I said goodbye and drove out to Cameron Road.

  The house was mass produced, built to last three years and now in its fourth. I parked at the curb, and a herd of little kids rattled past me on plastic tricycles with huge front wheels. I noticed that the lawn had lost its battle with Johnson grass.

  Jenny Shaw answered the front door with a wary smile. “I’m Daniel Sloane,” I said. “I’m a private investigator.” In all the years I’d been doing it, I’d yet to find a positive name for it. When I introduced myself I had to be ready to face hostility and distrust. The private detective had lost all his glamour, was back to being the dirty little peeper at the window. Sometimes I felt that way about myself

  “Come in,” she said, and held the door open. She was cast out of the same mold as her sister, with the same rich brown hair and the same large but attractive features. Her hair was cut shorter, though, and fell in a more relaxed way. Her eyes were brighter, less strained. She was perhaps five years younger, but looked more like ten. She was one of the more attractive women I’d seen in a while, and washed Charlene Desmond from my memory like a long drink of water.

  “Could I get you a cup of coffee?” she asked. “Or something stronger?”

  “Coffee would be fine. Please.” .

  I sat on the edge of a chair and looked at the prints on the walls. Her taste ran to symbolists and expressionists. She came back with two cups of coffee and handed me one. “There’s cream and sugar on the table,” she said, pointing.

  “Black is fine.”

  She sat on the sofa and examined me. “You’re working for my sister?”

  “Your nephew, actually,” I said, “but it comes to the same thing.”

  “How can I help you?”

  “I’m not sure. I seem to be losing ground faster than I’m gaining. All I know at this point is that someone set Jason King up for that scandal. Maybe the secretary, maybe someone behind her. It might even be a reverse blackmail scheme, where they would have dropped the charges if King paid them. Whoever set it up probably killed him, or is at least involved in the murder somehow. But I don’t have any clue as to who it is. I think your sister does, but she won’t tell me.”

  There was a long silence. I could tell she was thinking something over, and I didn’t want to give her an opportunity to let it go. At last she said, “Can I trust you?”

  I shrugged. “That’s a pretty vague term. If you mean will I lie, cheat and steal to protect a client, no. If you mean do I have a conscience, yes, but I put caution and common sense above it.”

  “That’s a fair answer,” she said. “You see there’s...something I didn’t tell the police. I may have been wrong, but then again they never asked the right questions, either. They seemed to have their minds made up, and I saw no need to bring something up that might look, well; compromising for my sister.”

  “The police have a little trouble thinking along more than one track at once,” I agreed, thinking with regret of Winslow.

  “The day of the murder—that is, the afternoon before it—Marion got a call here. I answered it and it was a man’s voice, a soft, gentle voice. He asked for her by her first name, so I didn’t think it was a reporter or anything. It even sounded sort of familiar somehow. Anyway, I let her talk to him. I went in the next room, and I only heard bits and pieces of her side of the conversation. “

  “Can you remember anything, anything at all?”

  “Well, at first she sounded really shocked, stunned, to hear the voice. She sounded as if she didn’t believe it. Then she got very quiet. I had to come back in the room for something and I heard the tail end of it. She said something like ‘all right, eight o’clock at Jason’s’ or something like that. I know she was making a date to meet him there. Does that make sense to you?”

  “It makes a lot of sense. Whoever that was could be our blackmailer. Did he happen to say where he got your number?”
<
br />   “No, but it would have to be from Chico or Jason, wouldn’t it?”

  I agreed that it would. “One more question. This could be a hard one. Do you think your sister was having an affair?”

  “No. Not that she wasn’t capable of it. She certainly didn’t have enough feeling for Jason to stop her. It’s just that I suppose she hadn’t had a good enough offer. That’s usually the case, isn’t it?” Her smile was enigmatic, and too sad to be threatening.

  “Would there be anybody else she might be trying to protect?”

  “Not that I know of. Cherchez l’homme, is that it?”

  “Right. Just find a man with a gentle, soft-spoken voice. No problem.’”

  I got ready to leave. She took my hand at the door. “I think you’re a good person, Mr. Sloane. I’m glad you’re on our side.”

  I didn’t know what to say. It was too sudden, after having had doors slammed in my face all day. I muttered a thank you and walked out to the car.

  So now I had a suspect again. A man with a voice. Marion had set up an appointment with him, possibly to pay the blackmail. But what was her relationship to him? Was she involved in the setup? Was she the killer herself?

  The warm openness of the afternoon was telling me to call it a day. My eyes burned and I felt heavy and sour with sweat. The air was just right for a swim, or at least a sunbath. And part of me wanted to go back to the little peeling house and ask Jenny Shaw to dinner.

  I fought off all the evil impulses. The devil, as I was sure Jeff King would have told me, was finding work for my idle hands. I had plenty of time still to go out to the house on the lake. So I slammed my car into gear and rattled off toward Lake Travis.

  7.

  “No sir, I don’t know.” A trace of accent still touched Chico’s voice, but it was barely noticeable. He had lines of sorrow etched in his face, and I saw Jason King in the new light of the respect, perhaps even friendship, he had earned from this man. “I hadn’t heard the voice before. But I trusted him, somehow. He said he was an old, old friend of Mrs. King’s, and I believed him.”