FAST LANE

Dave Zeltserman

KINDLE EDITION

Copyright 2010 Dave Zeltserman

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

The characters and events in the stories within this collection are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, dead or alive, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

* * * * *

Fast Lane

* * * * *

For Bruce Grossman

cover by JT Lindroos

My poppa used to always say life just ain’t fair, and I guess of all the things he ever taught me, that makes more sense than anything else. At least it helps to explain what follows.

Johnny Lane,

Denver, Colorado 1992

* * * * *

Chapter 1

If I was lucky Debra Singer was still in Denver, and if she was, East Colfax would be a good bet. East Colfax was always a good bet for runaway teenagers.

Every major city’s got its East Colfax. In Los Angeles it’s Hollywood Boulevard, in New York it’s Times Square. In Denver it’s East Colfax. As I drove down it, I spotted Rude at the corner of Nineteenth Street smoking a cigarette and staring into the distance. Rude works as a bouncer at a strip club a few doors down. He also pimps for a couple of the dancers. When he was in Vietnam he was assigned to an elite unit where he’d be let loose into the jungle to return two or three months later with a bunch of Vietcong ears tied to a rope. Now he can’t stay cooped up for too long, needs to get out every half hour or so for some fresh air. I once tried arguing that the air inside his strip club was a hell of a lot fresher than the smog around Denver, but he failed to see the logic of it.

I pulled up alongside him. He looked past me, inhaled deeply on his cigarette, held the smoke in, and let it out slowly through his nose. “If it isn’t the famous celebrity detective, Johnny Lane,” he said in a soft, menacing growl. “Read your piece in the Examiner. Used it to mop up some coffee.”

“Well now, everyone’s a critic these days.”

I parked and got out of the car. As I approached him, I noticed his handlebar mustache had gotten thicker and grayer, looking more like a steel brush than ever. He took in another lungful of smoke and swallowed it down.

“I hear there’s dissension in the ranks,” he said. “One of the private dicks you hire was bitching to me. Thinks you’re taking advantage of him.”

I waited for him to go on but he was finished. He spat on the sidewalk before turning back to me. His face had the hard, dispassionate look of a granite block.

“I got to tell you,” I said, “that’s just not true. I’m upfront with everyone I hire. And you know, Rude, it’s really just generosity on my part that I subcontract my overflow cases. But you’re always going to have your complainers no matter how good you are to people.”

“He told me you take sixty percent off the top. That’s not very generous, Lane.”

“Yeah, well, I disagree.” I was starting to feel a little hot under the collar. “Look, I don’t put a gun to anyone, understand? If your guy can do better, let him.”

A thin smile cracked Rude’s face. “Hey man, don’t get excited. Just telling you what was said. You don’t have to convince me of anything.”

“Who’s complaining about me?”

“I’m not going to betray a confidence.” He took a final deep drag and flicked his cigarette away, his eyes half-closed and peering off into the distance.

“Sure. Anyway, that’s not why I’m here.” I handed him a photo of Debra Singer. “Know her?”

Rude studied it slowly. “Fresh meat,” he said, nodding. “In a few months, though, there’ll be maggots coursing through her flesh.” His eyes shifted to meet mine and for the first time in all the years I’d known him I saw a glint of life in them. “That’s a hell of a lot better prose than the crud you write,” he added sourly.

“I won’t disagree with you.”

“Maybe I should talk to your editor. If he’s going to publish crap like ‘Fast Lane’, maybe he’d be interested in something good. Something real. The Rude Streets, stories of the Hardluck.”

“Won’t sell,” I said. “You need a sympathetic hero. Someone for the reader to relate to. Not too many folks are going to relate to a sociopathic, sleazebag pimp.”

“But they relate to you, huh?”

A blond teenage girl wearing a belly shirt and hot pants walked out of a massage parlor across the street. I made sure she wasn’t Debra Singer before turning back to Rude. “Look,” I said. “I’m not making up the rules. Just telling you what they are.”

“I’m a war hero, godammit!”

“Yeah, you’re a fine, upstanding citizen.” I took Debra Singer’s photo from him. “How about the girl? Where can I find her?”

Rude pressed his eyes shut. Lines of concentration ran down his forehead like grooves running down granite. “She’s working at a peep show across from the Cabaret Club,” he said after a while. “Fresh meat’s working the private booths. For a buck she’ll take her panties off. After that, a buck a minute and she’ll play with herself so you can jerk off.”

I felt a little sick hearing it, but it could’ve been worse. At least she wasn’t working the streets. I thanked Rude and handed him forty bucks. He looked at his watch.

“Tanya’s on stage in five minutes,” he said. “You should come in for the show, Lane. This girl’s really something. She can pick up a roll of quarters and count the change.”

“Yeah, well, I got more than enough change as it is. And as my poppa used to say—”

He groaned. “Not one of your folksy little sayings, Lane. It’s too early in the day.”

“Funny you say that, cause my poppa—”

“Cut it out.”

“Well now, it’s too bad you feel that way. Cause, as my poppa used to say, maybe you would’ve learned something. But—”

There was no point going on. He had already shut himself off to me. As I moved away, his gaze shifted, staring into some godforsaken world that not too many people were privy to.

* * * * *

It bothered me that someone was complaining about me, and it didn’t make any sense. At least none that I could see. My one-man operation handles a large caseload, larger than most ten-man agencies, and the way I do it is by subcontracting my overload cases. Of course, ideally my clients want me to handle things personally, but they’re usually satisfied with knowing I’m involved, even if it’s only at a supervisory level. I guess it comes from the trust they develop reading about me over the years in the Denver Examiner.

Regardless of what Rude thought, the forty percent I pay when I subcontract a case is more than fair, especially when you consider that forty percent of my four-hundred-a-day charge is roughly what the smaller operatives can get on their own. You see, what my clients are paying for is my name, reputation, and expertise. Not for some nameless private dick they couldn’t care less about.

I decided I couldn’t help it if someone was going to be unreasonable, and I put it out of my mind.

* * * * *

The peep show Rude pointed out was a quarter of a mile further down East Colfax. There weren’t any parking spaces out front so I double-parked next to a Mercedes with an MD license plate. Before I made it into the establishment, a huge hog-like farm boy came puffing out of the peep show and blocked me.

“Hey, Buddy,” he said. “You gotta move your car.”

He wore a stained tee shirt and dungaree overalls that probably could’ve held ten forty-pound sacks of potatoes. They fit snugly on him. I told him I was just going to be a minute.

“Sorry.” He nudged me with his belly. I couldn’t help noticing his small pink rat’s eyes. “The cops will be down my neck if you block traffic. Go ahead and move your car. The girls will wait.”

He had a sick, oniony smell. I backed away from him and showed him Debra Singer’s photo. “I’m looking for this girl,” I said.

His eyes grew smaller and meaner. He moved towards me and bumped me again with his belly, pushing me back a foot. “She’s busy,” he said. “Why don’t you get lost?”

“She’s a minor. Bring her out here now or I’ll close your place down.”

“She told me she was eighteen,” he said stubbornly.

“Sorry, Tiny, she’s only sixteen. Look, your smell is making me nauseous. Why don’t you go get her?”

He stared at me. “I don’t like that name. You think it’s funny because of my size, huh?”

“Well now,” I said. “That didn’t have anything to do with it. I just heard some of the girls talking about you.”

He gave me a sullen stare as he tried to make up his mind about something. I guess he finally decided my crack wasn’t worth worrying about. He headed back into the peep show. I waited on the sidewalk for a minute and then stepped inside.

It was dark. It took a moment before my eyes focused on a sign indicating private booths in the back. As I turned the corner I walked into a room with about a half-dozen girls sitting on a cheap brown sofa, the oldest of whom couldn’t have been more than twenty. They didn’t look happy. One of them glanced up at me and licked her lips. Then I heard the commotion coming from behind them.

Tiny pushed his way through the red curtains separating the room from the private booths, dragging Debra Singer behind him like he was pulling a bed sheet. All she had on were a pair of panties. Tiny jerked her to her feet and shoved her into the middle of the room. She collapsed onto the floor, sobbing, pleading with him.

“Go on,” he said, a satisfied smirk twisting his little mouth. “Get her out of here.”

My hands balled into fists. “You could’ve let her put some clothes on,” I said.

Tiny took a small step back and wiped some sweat from his forehead. “You told me you wanted her right away, didn’t you? Now get her out of here! And I better never see your face around here again!”

One of the girls had run to the back room and retrieved a pair of jeans and a halter-top and was helping Debra into them. Another one had gotten her a pair of sneakers. Debra looked like a stick that could be broken in half by stepping on it the wrong way. I took a deep breath and felt my hands relax. Tiny stood cautiously watching me.

The two girls finished dressing Debra. One of them was rubbing Debra’s face with a towel. She had stopped sobbing. Her eyes were blotchy, the rest of her face, pale and bloodless. I walked over to her. “Come on, honey,” I said. “Let’s go.”

She let me lead her out. The way the sunlight hit her as she stepped outside, you could see her skull shining through her skin. There just wasn’t enough flesh on her. As she walked ahead I counted the vertebrae running down the back of her neck. She was so damn skinny and gawky. Her hips had barely begun to develop into a woman’s. Thinking about what she had been doing in there, I almost turned around and sought Tiny out.

As I started to drive off, he stepped outside, shaking his fist and yelling. I looked over my shoulder and caught his eye and then put the car in reverse. He disappeared back into the peep show.

Debra had been sitting quietly, pale blue eyes staring blindly at her feet. All of a sudden she tried to bolt. I grabbed her around the waist and reached across her and pulled the door shut. She resisted for about a ten count and then her body went limp.

“I’m not going back,” she stated in a barely audible monotone.

I drove until I was able to pull over. Then I turned and looked at her. A thin pale blue outline of veins crisscrossed her temples. “Honey,” I said. “Your parents are worried sick about you.”

She started to giggle and then bit her lip. “I’m not going back. I’ll kill myself if you make me go back.”

It was getting close to noon. Up ahead a couple of hookers were getting ready for the lunchtime crowd, disguising their sores with makeup and pulling their pants tighter against their crotches. I wanted to get Debra out of there as quickly as I could. “Why don’t we talk about it over lunch?”

She didn’t answer me.

I heard her teeth chattering and saw that she was shivering. “I got a jacket in the trunk. Would you like me to get it for you?”

She didn’t bother to answer. “What drugs are you doing?”

Still nothing from her. She had her hands clasped in her lap. I glanced at her arms and didn’t see any needle marks. I drove downtown, towards the Financial District, and was able to find a parking spot outside the Corner Diner.

Carol was working the counters. She waved us over, but I indicated I was going to take a booth. I noticed her eyeing Debra as we made our way to the back of the diner.

Carol came over with a couple of menus and a dishrag. “Hi, Johnny,” she said as she leaned her cute body forward and wiped the table. “I really enjoyed your column last month.”

“You didn’t use it to mop up spilled coffee?”

“No way. I saved it. Maybe you could autograph it for me later?”

“Sure. Thought I saw you working the counter today.”

“I am.” She started blushing. Red looked nice against her blond hair. “But it’s not busy yet, so I thought I could handle a table. Is this, uh, your niece?”

I guess I must’ve been annoyed at the way she had looked at Debra earlier because I smiled broadly and told her Debra was my new girlfriend. Debra let loose with a giggle and Carol’s blush turned a deeper red. I felt bad as soon as I said it. Carol was a good kid, always cheering me up when I needed it, and with the type of cases I was taking these days I needed it more and more.

“That’s not quite true,” I told her. “She’s someone who’s had some tough luck recently. I’m taking her back to her parents as soon as she has a good meal in her.”

Debra’s smile dropped, leaving her face pinched. Carol turned to her and put a hand on her shoulder. Debra shrank back from it.

“You poor thing,” Carol said. “What do you feel like eating?”

“Nothing,” Debra murmured.

“Get her a cheeseburger and a chocolate milkshake,” I told Carol. “And how about getting me your meatloaf plate? Think you can hide some extra mash potatoes on it?”

“I’ll think of something,” Carol said, flashing me a grin as she took the menus and headed back.

Debra started tearing at one of her fingernails. “You’re the detective in the newspaper,” she said without looking at me.

“That’s right. Ever read my stuff?”

“Yeah, it’s okay.”

“Everyone’s a critic these days.” I leaned forward. “Honey, they really are worried sick about you. When I met with your daddy today he didn’t look too well.”

She giggled again and then looked up at me, her eyes stone hard. “I bet he didn’t call the police.”

I didn’t know whether he had or not. “Why do you say that?”

“You’re the detective. Figure it out.” She looked down at her nail and continued to tear at it.

“You don’t think your daddy’s worried about you?” Her lips started moving, but she didn’t say anything.

A sickish feeling pushed into my stomach. Carol brought the food. I pulled her aside and asked if she could watch Debra while I made a phone call. She said sure, and told me I could use the phone by the cash register.

I called a Denver cop I knew and asked if a missing persons report had been filed for Debra Singer. He told me to wait a minute and he’d check. When he came back, he told me there wasn’t. “Is she missing?” he asked.

“I’m not sure.” I hung up and went back to the table. Debra was nibbling on her burger, barely making a dent in it. I had lost my appetite. I waited until she put down the burger, and then asked her why she’d run away.

She looked up and saw that I knew. Her face looked pale and pained. She squeezed her eyes shut.

“Honey, what did he do to you?”

“What do you think?” she asked in a tiny whisper. And then she told me.

I had half suspected it when her daddy hired me. I guess I tried convincing myself it was the way he had explained it. I wanted to believe it was that way, that Debra was a troubled kid who had gotten into drugs and other bad stuff, but if I could bring her back, him and his wife would do whatever it took to straighten her out. If only I’d find her and bring her back . . . .

If only it could’ve been that way. With all the lowlife cases I’d been handling recently, I needed it to be that way. I needed a chance to do some good for a change. Rescue the lost, wayward daughter. Bring her back to her heartsick parents. Instead I was right back in the gutter, scraping my nose against it.

Debra was describing the abuse, about how it began when she was seven and how it had gradually progressed. As she talked, her small face tightened, her words coming out in an angry rush. Inside I was reeling.

Tears had started to well up. One of them broke free and rolled down her cheek. It took a while before I could find my voice and ask whether her mother knew.

“She couldn’t care less,” she said. Her bottom lip looked like it was about to give way.

“Now, honey, that couldn’t be true—”

“I said, she couldn’t care less!” she screamed. “She couldn’t care less! How many more times you want me to say it?”

She pushed her burger away and dropped her arms and head to the table, sobbing. “You should’ve left me alone,” she forced out, her words choked and anguished. “I had a glass wall separating me from them. No one was going to touch me there.”

I told her I’d help. That I’d work things out. My words sounded silly but there wasn’t much else I could say. Carol came over and asked if everything was okay. I didn’t answer her. She sat next to Debra, and Debra turned and fell against her and started sobbing harder than before.

I sat and watched for a while, the sickish feeling in my stomach knotting my insides. Then I got up and called Craig Singer. I told him I’d found his daughter, but there were some problems and I needed to talk with him. He asked whether he should have his wife join us, and I told him it would probably be better if she didn’t. A hesitancy crept into his voice as he asked how Debra was. I told him we’d better talk about it in person and we agreed to meet at his home in a half hour.

I walked back to the table. Debra had stopped crying, but it looked like she could start up again any moment. The short order cook yelled out to Carol that food was stacking up. I asked her if she could keep an eye on Debra.

“It could be a while before I come back, but it’s important.”

Carol looked uncomfortable. “I’ll try, Johnny. I have to get back to work, though.”

I gave Debra a weak smile. “Stay put,” I told her. “Everything will be just fine. I promise you that.” She looked away.

* * * * *

Craig singer lived in Arvada, a suburb on the western edge of Denver. As I drove, I found myself daydreaming, thinking about things I hadn’t thought of in years. It kind of shook me up, because they were things I really had no right thinking about. Things that wouldn’t do me any good at all. It shook me up bad enough that I had to pull over on the highway to collect my thoughts.

As I sat there trying to clear my head, a state trooper pulled up behind me. He walked over to my car, bent his head towards the window and sniffed, trying to detect alcohol.

“Everything okay in there?”

“Everything’s fine. I was just feeling a little woozy.”

“You haven’t been drinking, have you?”

I laughed. “Not yet, officer. But I could sure use one.”

“Why don’t you show me some identification?”

I handed him my driver’s license. He studied it slowly and handed it back to me. “I enjoy reading your column, Mr. Lane,” he said. “You okay now?”

“I think so, officer.” I had a sick feeling in my gut that told me I wasn’t.

Chapter 2

I ended up being late for my meeting with Craig Singer. Almost an hour and a half after I called him, I pulled up to his house. It was a nice house, a brick English Tudor. Thick grass covered the extensive front yard. It takes money to keep grass that green in Colorado.

I rang the bell and waited.

When Singer opened the door, he offered me a moist hand and looked past me. “Where’s Debra?”

“I thought it would be better if we talked first. I’ll bring her over later.”

“Is that usual?” he asked, trying his damnedest to smile pleasantly.

“Sometimes.”

Singer was a tall skinny man with a head too large for his body. It looked almost like he had a tough time keeping from tipping over. Like his daughter, he could’ve used more flesh on his face, especially around the eyes and nose. He also could’ve used some better coloring. His skin was way too white and I couldn’t help thinking there was a pint more blood in those lips than there had any right to be. He stepped aside, apologizing, and let me through.

He led me into the den and asked if I wanted a drink. I told him that bourbon right now would do me a world of good. He pulled open a portable bar and asked if scotch was alright. I told him it was.

“I’ve been so worried about Debra.” He handed me the drink and sat across from me. “I haven’t been able to work,” he said. “I can’t believe how quickly you found her.”

I took a long sip of the scotch and leaned back in my chair.

“To be honest,” he went on, his smile beginning to show some strain. “You’re making me nervous with the way you’re acting. How bad is it with Debra?”

“Why don’t you pay me the three-thousand-dollar bonus you promised? Then I’ll tell you all about it.”

He sat for a moment, blinking a few times. “I thought I’d pay you once you’d brought her home,” he said.

“I think it would be better if we did it this way.”

“I-I guess it doesn’t matter. You’ll bring her home later today?”

“That’s right.”

“And I could always stop payment on the check if you don’t.”

“Of course you could.”

He pushed himself up. “Why don’t I go write the check?” While I waited for him I finished the rest of my scotch.

When he came back, I noticed some moisture had formed over his upper lip. He handed me a check for three thousand dollars. I put it in my wallet and told him where I had found Debra and what she had been doing.

As I talked he kept muttering about his poor little girl, but for a second, I guess before he had any control over it, a look of excitement flushed over his face. He must’ve realized, because he quickly buried his face in his hands. When he pulled them away he was the picture of the tortured dad. He had even squeezed out a couple of tears.

“Oh dear God,” he cried softly. “My poor little girl. Thank you so much for finding her.”

I stood up and turned away, but I couldn’t get that picture of him out of my mind, of him getting excited hearing what his daughter was doing for a buck in a peep show.

“Oh God,” he was going on, hamming it up. “I’ll make sure she gets professional help. I’ll make sure—”

I spun on my heels and swung at him, catching him hard on his mouth and bursting his lip wide open. He went down like he’d been shot. I only half saw him as he curled into a fetal position, spitting out blood and a couple of teeth.

He lay on the ground blubbering. I stood over him, trembling, trying not to look at him, trying not to think about him, trying not to do what I wanted to do. I went to the bar and poured myself another drink. I downed it quickly and refilled the glass.

Tears streamed down his face and mixed with blood. Between sobs, he murmured that I was insane and that he was going to call the police. I walked over to him.

“Your daughter told me.”

“You’re crazy!” Thick red bubbles popped from his mouth. “Get out of here! Get out of here now!”

I kicked him in the stomach and that started him blubbering even harder. I leaned over and grabbed him by his hair and pulled him up so he had to look at me.

“She told me all about you,” I said. “About you raping her and—”

“You going to believe that lying bitch? That lying little cu—”

I threw him down and kicked him hard in the chest, giving it just about everything I had. I kicked him again. Both times I heard his ribs crack. He moaned and curled up tighter. I was still holding the glass of scotch, although I’d spilled half of it when I was kicking him. I drank what was left. “She’s not lying.” I repeated everything his daughter had told me. When I’d finished I said, “When I bring Debra here later you’re going to be long gone. For good. God help you if she ever sees you again.”

“What am I going to tell my wife?” he asked softly, and then broke out with more blubbering.

“That’s your problem.” I turned away. I had to. I walked over to a rosewood bookcase and picked up a family portrait. In it, Craig Singer was smiling with all his teeth intact, arms wrapped around his wife and daughter. If you glanced at it you’d think it was just as it appeared, a typical upper middle-class family picture. The proud father, the loving but impatient wife, the sullen bored teenager. But if you looked a little more carefully, you’d realize it wasn’t boredom on Debra Singer’s face, any more than it was teenage angst. And if you looked hard enough, you could detect rigid lines around Mrs. Singer’s eyes and mouth that might indicate something more than impatience.

Singer whimpered. I put the photo back on the bookcase. “I’m hurt pretty bad,” he moaned. “I need a doctor.”

“Again, that’s your problem.”

He pushed himself up into a sitting position. I knew he was in a good deal of pain. He’d have to be with a busted up mouth and a chest full of cracked ribs.

“You don’t understand,” he said. “I love my daughter. She’s all I care about. If you give me a chance I can change and—”

“You better stop now while you can. In another minute it’ll be too late.”

He started crying again. “What am I going to do?”

“You’re going to get out of here,” I said. “Now. I don’t know how much longer I can stomach being around you.”

He slowly got to feet, moaning every inch of the way. He grabbed his side loosely and headed towards the staircase. He said he was going to pack a few things. I told him there wasn’t time. He hesitated and then turned around and hobbled to the bathroom. I watched as he cleaned and bandaged his mouth. The bandaged area had already swollen to the size of a small melon. I didn’t see the point in what he was doing, but I also didn’t see any point arguing with him.

When he was done, he asked again about packing some items. I shook my head. I followed him as he left the house.

As he got behind the wheel of his Volvo his expression changed, the submissiveness in his eyes shifting to something else, something cagey. He waved me over.

“You have no right,” he said. “What you did was assault and battery. Possibly attempted murder.”

“I guess you could look at it that way.”

“You guess I could look at it that way? I could sue you for every penny you got and then put you in jail.”

“Well, you could sure try.”

“I could do a lot more than just try.” He watched carefully for my reaction. “If you tell anyone about your allegations or write about them in your newspaper column, you’ll find out how much I can do.”

“Yeah, well, if you’d like we could go to the police right now. I’d be glad to bring Debra along and have her tell her story.”

His jaw muscles tightened as he looked away. Blood seeped from his bandaged mouth and dripped down his shirt. “You better keep quiet about this, Lane. If you don’t, I’ll sue you.” He turned back, facing me. “And I’ll move back home.”

I leaned forward, resting on his window. “Let me make sure you understand something,” I said as politely as I could. “The only reason I won’t write about this is because I don’t want to make things any more difficult than they already are for your daughter. If she ever sees your face again, I promise you there won’t be any face left afterwards.”

He put the car in gear and stepped on the gas. I had to jump back to keep from having my feet run over.

Of course, he was only kidding himself. I guess the finality of it all hadn’t sunk in yet, but it would. It was only a matter of time.

I looked down and saw my hands were shaking worse than a junkie’s. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying not to think about Craig Singer, about what I almost did to him, about what I wanted more than anything to do to him. Because when I was standing over him I knew I came within a hair’s breadth of sending him straight to hell. It took every ounce of strength I had to keep from doing it.

I stood there for a while and then got in my car and waited until the shaking stopped.

* * * * *

I almost didn’t get to the bank in time to cash Craig Singer’s check. As it was, the teller was a big fan of mine, and by the time we were through chatting and I was able to leave, it was past five o’clock. It was almost five thirty before I got back to the Corner Diner.

Carol was sitting at a table waiting for me. She looked miserable. When she saw me her face went white.

“I’m so sorry, Johnny—”

I put up a hand, stopping her. Of course Debra was gone. I told Carol it was my fault for taking as long as I did. I asked her what time Debra had left.

“Around one thirty,” Carol said. “I tried to keep an eye on her, but it got busy, and when I looked up she wasn’t there. My shift ended at three but I’ve been waiting for you so I could—”

“So you could sit around and make yourself more and more miserable,” I said, forcing a smile. “Look, darling, the reason I come here is because you got such a beautiful smile it makes me feel good just to look at you. If you’re going to look the way you do right now, I might have to find myself another diner.”

That made her blush and smile at the same time. “I feel terrible about this, Johnny,” she said.

“Don’t worry, I’ll find her. Second time is always easier.”

* * * * *

I gave it my best shot. I spent over an hour driving up and down East Colfax without any luck. After that I drove to Denver International Airport and showed Debra’s picture around. People stopped and looked at it and shook their heads sadly and told me how sorry they were they couldn’t help. I got the same reactions when I tried the bus terminal.

It was ten thirty when I tried East Colfax again. At each street corner I slowed down and waited for the hookers to come running over and then I showed them Debra’s picture. Some argued that they could give me a better ride for my money than the girl I was looking for, others got nasty, and a few tried to help, giving me the old news about Debra working Tiny’s peep show. After East Colfax, I drove around the State Capital building with pretty much the same results, only difference being more of the hookers were transvestites.

By the time I got home it was two thirty in the morning and I was dead tired. I hadn’t really eaten all day, but I didn’t have much of an appetite. I went to bed. As I lay awake thoughts entered my head, things that I had no right thinking about. After a while, I realized I wasn’t going to sleep. Especially with those images swirling around in my mind. I got up, found a bottle of bourbon, and brought it back to bed. A long time later I passed out.

When I woke, I felt like I had swallowed a pound of chewing tobacco and spent a few hours being kicked in the stomach. It was a lot more than the hangover that made me feel as bad as I did. I couldn’t stop thinking about Craig Singer, about what I almost did to him. Other things had seeped through. Real crazy things that just didn’t make any sense.

As I lay awake trying to sort it all out, I realized I was blowing everything out of proportion. Because if you think about it, what I wanted to do was perfectly normal; any sane, rational person would’ve wanted to do the same thing. If you lift up a rock and see something nasty crawling under it your natural reaction is to stomp on it, right?

Under any rock, there wouldn’t be anything much lower than Craig Singer.

Realizing all that made me feel better, maybe even a little hungry.

I showered and dressed. My hangover passed through me like a bad chill and by the time I headed off to work I was feeling okay.

My office is right in downtown Denver, about twenty minutes from my house. I parked behind my building and walked the three blocks to the Corner Diner. Carol was again working the counters and when she saw me she rushed over and asked how Debra was. I didn’t see any reason for her to be tearing herself up over something like that, so I told her a white lie about finding Debra and bringing her back to her parents. That brought a genuine smile to Carol’s face, which in turn made me feel a little better and a little hungrier. I ended up polishing off a stack of pancakes and four side orders of bacon and a pound of hash browns.

* * * * *

Considering I run one of Denver’s more successful detective agencies there’s not a lot to my office, just an anteroom overflowing with file cabinets and a fifteen by fifteen room—large enough for a desk, a coat rack and a couple of chairs. At one time I carried a secretary, but found I was throwing my money away. I handle the typing myself now, and have an answering service for my calls.

I called Jimmy Tobbler. After that I called my service and got a list of messages. All but one was from Mrs. Singer. She didn’t leave any message other than that she needed to see me. The final message was from a Mary Williams. I was able to locate her at the second of two numbers she’d left. She sounded young. We arranged an appointment for later in the morning.

I tried to make a dent in the paperwork piling up on my desk, but just wasn’t in the mood. As I sat staring at it, Max Roth called to tell me that the case I had subcontracted to him wasn’t going as expected. He needed another week, maybe two, to wrap things up. I was disappointed. The case should’ve been a three-day job. He was obviously milking it. I told him if it looked like it was going to take more than another week to let me know, that I’d consider giving him some help with it. When he hung up, he wasn’t all that careful about replacing the receiver. The noise damn near popped my eardrum.

A few minutes after that, Jimmy Tobbler showed up. I handed him Debra’s photo. He sat down and studied it. “Anorexic?” he said, looking up at me.

“I think so.” I rubbed a hand across my face. “I found her yesterday and then lost her. She’d been working a peep show on East Colfax. I’d like you to check out the other girls working there.”

He thought it over, nodded. “I can think of worse ways to spend an afternoon. What if I strike out?”

“She’s only been on the streets for two weeks. Probably doesn’t have too many contacts yet. You could try checking the youth hostels. Still no luck, maybe she hitchhiked out of town. Boulder would be a good bet. So would Colorado Springs. My gut feeling, though, is she’s still in Denver.” I paid him a week’s advance and gave him the address for Tiny’s peep show. As he got up to leave I asked him if he could take it easy with the expense money.

“Come on, Johnny. I have to tip these girls.”

“Well, just try and be a little careful with what you spend, okay?” Tobbler, being the comedian that he was, hummed “Thank Heaven for Little Girls” as he strolled from my office.

I picked up Debra Singer’s photo. I couldn’t look away from her eyes. I found myself wishing I had kicked Craig Singer a good deal harder, and maybe a few more times in the mouth. A harsh wrap of knuckles sounded against my office door. I got up, opened it, and found a middle-aged woman standing there, breathing hard. I recognized her from the Singer family portrait.

“You wouldn’t return my calls,” she said in a tight, forced voice. The rigid lines around her eyes and mouth were pronounced.

“You must be Mrs. Singer.” I stepped aside to let her through. “Why don’t you come in and take a seat?”

She faced me full on. She was thin, bony, blond hair streaked with gray and pulled away from her face. Her elbows looked sharp enough to cut paper. She glanced quickly around the office, moved to a chair and sat down.

I sat back at my desk. I couldn’t help noticing her neck. While the rest of her visible skin was pulled up tight, her neck was long and thin and webbed with sagging flesh. Next time she had a face-lift, she should look into doing something about that.

“Sorry about not returning your calls. I only got back to the office a few minutes ago. I’ve been out all night looking for your daughter.”

She didn’t say anything. Just sat there glaring at me. “What can I do for you?” I asked.

“I think you know.”

I blinked at her. “I’m sorry, I really don’t have any idea—”

“My husband’s in the hospital!”

“No kidding?” I let my eyes grow wide. “I saw him only yesterday morning. What happened to him?”

“Craig claims he fell down the stairs.” She lowered her eyes. “His doctor thinks he was punched in the face and kicked several times in the chest.” She turned back to me. “Facial fractures, three broken ribs, two teeth knocked out.”

And a partridge in a pear tree.

“So you’d like me to find out who did this to him?” I asked sincerely. “Do you know what he could’ve done to deserve that kind of beating?”

For a while all she could do was stare at me. “He told me he’s not coming home when he gets out of the hospital,” she finally murmured.

“Well now—”

“We hired you to find our daughter, not to split up our family!”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand—”

“Where’s my daughter? Craig said you found her. Why isn’t she home?”

“He must be confused,” I said. “Probably from his fall. I did speak to friends of hers who’ve seen her. She’s having a pretty rough time, and when I do find her and bring her home she needs you to listen to her and—”

“My daughter lives in a fantasy world,” she said. “Debra’s always making up ridiculous stories. You surely didn’t believe any of her nonsense?”

“And what nonsense might that be?”

Mrs. Singer started to say something, choked it back and looked away. “We made a mistake hiring you,” she said. “Why don’t we consider you fired?”

I shrugged. “Fine with me. I’m still going to find her, though. And when I do, I’m going to make sure she’s safe.”

“You leave my daughter alone!” She sprung from her chair, face livid, bony hands clenched into fists. “You understand me? Leave my daughter alone!” She didn’t wait for me to answer. She turned and fled from the office, the door slamming behind her.

I felt a little shaky inside, wondering what good it would do to find Debra Singer. There didn’t seem to be much point in it, at least none I could see. As I reached in my bottom desk drawer for a bottle of rye, a soft knocking interrupted me. My office door opened and a young girl peeked in.

“Hi,” she said. “I’m Mary Williams. We have an eleven o’clock appointment?”

I apologized for keeping her waiting and asked her to come in. As she entered the office, I felt a funny feeling start to kick in my chest. It was more than just the way she looked, though. More than just her slender body, or her soft brown eyes, or the way her long black hair flowed past her shoulders. There was a freshness to her, a sweetness. I realized that for the first time in God knows how long I was actually feeling pretty good and it surprised the hell out of me.

“I read your column every month,” she said, looking around her. “This office is so cool. Exactly the way I pictured it.”

“Yeah, it’s not much, is it?”

“It’s perfect!” she said. “Just like a detective’s office ought to be.”

“That’s certainly good to hear,” I said. “Otherwise, I guess I’d need to find a new job.” A little red tinged her cheeks. “I hope you weren’t waiting out there too long.”

“Not too long.”

“But long enough?”

She shifted in her chair. “I’m sorry,” she said. She fidgeted for a moment with her handbag. “I couldn’t help overhearing what was being said. I guess I have the opposite problem of the woman who was just here.”

“You’re sexually abusing your father?”

“What?”

I shook my head, waving off my comment. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. I’ve been having a rotten couple of days.”

“He’s abusing his daughter? Is that why you beat him up?”

“No,” I corrected her. “That’s why he fell down a staircase.”

She spotted the pictures on my desk. “Is that her?” she asked, a concerned look forming on her face. “That poor girl.”

I gathered up the photos and dropped them into my bottom desk drawer, next to the rye. “Miss. Williams, how can I help you?”

“Please call me Mary.”

“Okay, Mary.”

“I’d like you to find my parents.”

“You lost them?”

“In a way.” She stared at her hands, a darkness clouding her eyes. “I was adopted. I’d like to hire you to find my birth parents. How much do you charge?”

“Four hundred a day, plus expenses.”

She looked up at me, surprised and disappointed. “I didn’t think it would be that much. I’ve been saving up, but I don’t think I’ll have enough if it takes more than a week.”

“How long have you been saving?”

She gave me a dejected smile. “Two semesters.”

“You’re a student?”

“Trying to be. I’m a sophomore at Denver University.”

I asked her what she’d been doing to save up for this, and she looked away, sort of embarrassed, and told me she’d been working nights at a convenience store. After more prompting, she told me she was putting herself through school. Her parents wanted to pay, but she didn’t think that would be fair, not with her getting a job so she could hire a detective and the way they felt about it. From what she told me, I gathered they weren’t too thrilled with the idea of her searching for her birth parents.

Watching her explain her situation, I wanted to break out laughing. Not out of meanness or anything, only cause of how sweet it was. I mean, here she was going to college all day and working her butt off all night so she could hire a detective to find her parents. I found it touching. I needed a case like this. I needed something where I could do some good for a change. Especially after the last few cases I’d worked on. Anyway, as my poppa used to say: it never hurt none to do a pretty young gal a favor. I told her I’d charge her fifty dollars a day with expenses coming out of my own pocket. Her face lit up brighter than any Christmas tree. I sat back and enjoyed the sight.

“If you don’t mind,” I said, “I might write about this for my newspaper column.”

“That would be exciting.” She lowered her voice, her face reddening a bit. “I’ve been saving your columns for a long time.”

“Well, then, why don’t we get started? How much do you know about your birth parents?”

“Nothing. When I was twelve my parents told me I was adopted. I was a baby when they got me. I don’t have any memories of my biological parents.”

“This may sound silly, but do your parents know who your birth parents are?”

She shook her head.

“You sure?”

“Positive.” She pushed her chin out slightly, challenging me to argue with her. “They got me through an agency. They don’t even know what state I came from.”

I found a pen on my desk and pushed the cap off. “Why don’t you give me the name of the agency?”

She looked at me blankly and said after a while, “My parents never told me it.”

“I’ll need to see your parents. Why don’t we set something up for tonight?”

“I don’t want them involved.” She let out a lungful of air through her mouth. “It will upset them. They think I’m rejecting them as it is. Frank and Julie are wonderful. I love them and think of them as my parents, and I’ll always think of them as my parents, whatever happens. But that doesn’t mean I don’t need to find out who I really am. They just can’t understand that.”

“I need to talk with them, Mary. Otherwise I’m stuck right now.”

She struggled with the idea. “Could you maybe just give them a quick call?” she offered as a compromise.

“Sorry, no. I need to talk with them face to face. I’d just as soon find your birth parents for you as quickly as possible.”

That settled it for her. She nodded slightly and asked if it would be okay if I came over at six thirty. “I have to be at work at eight,” she added.

“Six thirty’s fine.”

She fidgeted some more with her bag. “How much should I pay you?”

“I’ll bill you later. Just write down your parent’s address for me. Also, I’m going to need a picture of you. If nothing else, it will look good on my desk.”

“I’d like to pay you a two week retainer,” she said. “It will make me feel like I’m really doing this.”

I didn’t argue. I could see it was important to her. She wrote me a check and then gave me directions to her parent’s house. She held out her hand to me. It was a nice hand to hold. I felt sorry letting it go.

After she left, I sat back and realized I was feeling better than I had felt in quite a while. There was no reason to worry about what I almost did to Craig Singer.

Not much else happened that afternoon. Eddie Braggs called from the Examiner, asking whether my ‘Fast Lane’ feature would be ready on time and after that, I drove around Denver looking for Debra Singer without any luck.

Chapter 3

Mary’s parents lived in Golden, a small town fifteen miles west of Denver, in a cozy little house on a dead-end street. It had a picket fence, trimmed hedges and a small flower garden out front. Mary answered the door, and after introducing me to Lucy, the family golden retriever, she led me into the living room where her parents were waiting. Her mother popped up from the sofa and offered me coffee and pastries. After Mrs. Williams left the room, Mary handed me an envelope. Inside were a studio photograph and several wallet-sized shots of herself. She looked tired as she sat down on a loveseat that was to the right of sofa. Lucy followed her and plopped down by her feet. I took the green velvet armchair with the old-fashioned doilies.

After Mary’s mother brought in the coffee, she joined her husband on the sofa. They were in their early forties, around my age, although they looked quite a bit older than me.

Mrs. Williams took a sip of coffee before looking up. “I know Mary’s very excited about hiring you,” she said.

Mary made a face. “Mother,” she muttered under her breath.

“She’s been cutting out your columns for as long as I can remember,” Mrs. Williams continued, her hands folded in her lap. “They’re saved in a scrap book. She must’ve been planning on hiring you for a long time.”

Mary started to say something, stopped herself and stared off into a corner.

“This must be very important to her,” said Mrs. Williams.

“Yes, ma’am,” I agreed. “I know it is.” I noticed a photo on the wall of Mary when she was probably no older than ten. She was thin and tan, her long brown hair reaching half way to her waist. I had to clear my throat before turning back to her mother. “I’m hoping you can help me and tell me the name of the agency that handled Mary’s adoption?”

“We’d do anything to help our daughter,” Mrs. Williams said, her voice trembling.

Mr. Williams pushed himself out of his chair and left the room. While he was gone, Mrs. Williams offered me more coffee. When her husband came back, he handed me a folder. “Mary said you’d be needing this. I made a copy,” he said.

I went through the folder. A downtown Denver law firm had handled Mary’s adoption. “Don’t know if they’re still in business,” Mr. Williams remarked sullenly. “It was twenty years ago.”

“They’re still around.” I’d dealt with the firm before. “Do you know anything about Mary’s birth parents?”

“No,“ Mrs. Williams said. “Mary was only a couple of months old when we got her. We think of her exactly as if she were our own.”

“And I think of you as my mom!” Mary cut in, her eyes growing moist. “I love both of you! But that doesn’t mean I don’t need to know where I came from!”

Mrs. Williams lowered her head. “Of course it doesn’t, dear.”

I stood up. “I’d like to thank both of you for your help.” Then to Mary, “I’ll let you know when I find something more.”

She looked drained. “I better get ready for work. Thanks for coming, Mr. Lane.”

“Johnny,” I said.

“Johnny,” she agreed. “I’ll walk you to the door.”

“Why don’t you get ready, dear?” Mrs. Williams said. “I’ll show Mr. Lane out. I’d like to talk with him for a minute.”

Mary didn’t look too happy, but she didn’t argue. She left the room, Lucy following her, wagging her tail, her body brushing against Mary’s.

Mrs. Williams smelled faintly of bathroom deodorant. She touched my arm in a conspiratorial sort of way. “I’d like to pay for this,” she said.

“I’m sorry. Your daughter and I have already made an arrangement. I think it’s important for her to do this herself.”

“My daughter’s a very stubborn girl,” she said, more to herself than to me. “This hurts,” she confided. “I know it shouldn’t. I understand why Mary’s doing it. It still hurts, though.”

I got to the door. I muttered something polite. Mrs. Williams stopped me. “I wish you could say something to her,” she said, an almost desperate pleading in her eyes. “But of course it wouldn’t do any good.” She sighed. “When Mary makes up her mind, there’s nothing anyone can do to change it.”

I agreed with her.

When I got home I checked in with my answering service. There was one message. Rude wanted me to see some fresh meat he had locked away in a freezer.

* * * * *

It was a slow night at the strip club. A handful of customers were seated around the stage watching a chunky brunette move sluggishly to a tired beat. When she slipped out of her panties, it was a completely mechanical motion. She could’ve been frying burgers at a fast food joint. The tables were all empty, except for one in the back where Rude was sitting, sipping coke from a can. He waved me over. The bluish green scorpion tattoo on his forearm wriggled its stinger, welcoming me.

“How much you willing to pay for some fresh meat?” he asked.

“Fifty dollars?”

He gave me a disgusted look. “That’s not even fifty cents a pound. Make it two hundred.”

I didn’t bother arguing. I paid him. He flipped though the bills, not really paying attention. “I do all the work and you get all the glory,” he said.

“Tough life, isn’t it? Where is she?”

“Haven’t finished my coke.” He took another slow drag on the can. “What do you think of Candy?” he asked, nodding towards the dancer on stage.

I took a quick look and caught her stifling a yawn as she lifted a leg. “Doesn’t look like she’s putting out much effort,” I said.

Rude frowned. “I can’t understand that type of work ethic.”

“Yeah, it’s a shame.”

“Damn right.” Rude drained the rest of his coke and threw the can at the dancer. She ducked and sent Rude a nasty glare. “You better show some life up there,” he yelled at her. “Or I’ll boot your fat ass out the door.” A couple of customers hooted in agreement. Candy started shaking her body a little more energetically, her small black eyes smoldering with anger.

“You gotta help put some passion into their work,” Rude said with a wink. “Let me give you what you paid for.”

I followed him to a storage closet in the back of the bar. He unlocked it and showed me Debra Singer sitting on the floor, knees pulled tight to her chest. By her feet were a sandwich, a bag of potato chips and a can of coke. She glanced up at me, her eyes small blue ice chunks, then looked away.

“Came by a couple of hours ago looking for employment,” Rude said. “I’d like you to know, I’m not charging you for the food.”

“You got a heart of gold.” I crouched next to Debra. My heart was pounding. I said to her, “I wish you had stayed put. I promised you I’d take care of things.”

“I’m not going back,” she murmured weakly.

“He’s not home. He’s in a hospital now.”

She turned to me, eyes wide.

“I guess he fell down a staircase. If you ever see him again, give me a call and I promise you he’ll fall down a much longer and steeper one.”

Tears burst out of her. I helped her to her feet. Her shoulders seemed so tiny and frail that I worried they might crumble into dust. As I walked her out of the place, Rude got next to me, looking sheepish.

“You’re going to write about this, right?”

“Any reason I shouldn’t?”

He licked his lips, watching me carefully. “You going to mention how I really found her?”

“You want me to?”

He lowered his eyes. “It would be a nice thing to send my mom.”

I pretended to consider it and then shook my head. “Sorry, I’d have to make a few editorial changes. I wouldn’t want my readers knowing I associate with the likes of you. It could hurt my image.”

Of course I wasn’t planning on writing about it. I couldn’t afford to. Not with my agreement with Craig Singer. But it didn’t mean I couldn’t needle Rude. As I left with Debra, I heard him suggest what I could do with my column. I don’t see much point in spelling out the details, not with them being as vulgar as they were.

Before taking Debra home, we stopped off for some pizza. She surprised me and ate a couple of slices. We talked for a quite a while. I explained how even with the rotten deal she’d had, she could still be okay. It would be an upward struggle for her, but hell, it was an upward struggle for us all. I told her I knew folks who’d had it just as rotten and somehow survived and did okay in life. Maybe even better than okay. Before we left, I gave her what remained of the three-thousand-dollar bonus her father had paid me. I mentioned she could use it for counseling.

When I brought her home, her mother answered the door. She didn’t say a word to either of us. Her mouth was squeezed into a tight oval, her eyes full of hate. Debra started to say something, then clammed up and ran past her, disappearing into the house.

“Don’t you ever show up here again,” Mrs. Singer warned me.

“Your daughter needs help right now. She needs you to—”

She slammed the door in my face.

I stood there for quite a while. I don’t know how long exactly, maybe ten minutes, maybe twenty. In any case, it took that long before I trusted myself to move.

All in all I felt lousy about the deal. Deep in my gut I knew Debra would’ve been a whole lot better off if I’d left her in Rude’s strip club.

Chapter 4

I knew Tom Morton and could’ve just given him a call and gotten what I needed. I didn’t bother though; I didn’t feel like owing him a favor. Instead, the next morning I met with a middle-aged paralegal at the office of Geary, Morton and Fuller.

Mary’s adoption file sat in front of the paralegal, but she wouldn’t let me see it. She insisted she could only release it to Mary or the Williamses. I tried joking with her. Hell, I would’ve had better luck charming a block of ice.

She let me use her phone so I could call Mary. We arranged to meet at the law office at four thirty. When I got up to leave, the paralegal twisted her chair sideways and picked up some paperwork from her desk, making sure I knew how much my existence meant to her.

Of course I could’ve grabbed the folder from her. It would’ve been easy and there wouldn’t have been much she could’ve done to stop me. By the time she tried, I would’ve had what I needed. And I would’ve enjoyed seeing the expression on her face.

I didn’t, though. Thinking back on it, I must’ve been looking for an excuse to see Mary again.

* * * * *

When I got back to my office I left a message for Jimmy Tobbler that Debra Singer had been found, and then chipped away at the work piling up on my desk. After a while I took out Mary’s picture and stared at it. It was a studio portrait taken after her high-school graduation. While most studio shots make the subject look like a stuffed animal, this one was different. You could see the light dancing in her eyes and the playfulness brightening her smile. Looking at it brought a lump to my throat. When I glanced at my watch, I was surprised to see it was already a quarter past four.

Mary was waiting in front of the Statler building, all anxious and eager. When she saw me, she ran quickly to me and grabbed my arm.

“They know who my birth parents are?” she asked.

“They have your adoption records,” I said. There was a faint, pleasant smell of magnolia from her. Her hand felt nice on my arm. For a moment I was overwhelmed with the need to—well, forget it, it’s not even worth mentioning. Besides, I fought it back. I told her we’d better go inside.

Mrs. Helen Wilson, the paralegal, extended a hand to Mary, and then as a matter of courtesy offered me the same cold, damp claw. She released her grip on contact.

“As I told Mr. Lane earlier, I’d be willing to release your file to you or your parents,” she said to Mary. Maybe because her lips barely moved when she talked, or maybe because her skin looked like it had been varnished, she reminded me of a cheap mannequin. She licked her lips and added, “I would first like to talk with you. Can I get you something to drink?”

“No thanks.” Mary sat stiffly in her chair, her expression attentive, serious. “What would you like to talk about?”

“About what you’re trying to do. We handle quite a few adoptions through our office and we get many young people searching for their birth parents. Usually they’re disappointed with what they find.”

“I see—”

“Please.” Helen Wilson held up a hand, her wooden expression intact. “I know you’ve made up your mind. I’ve seen the same look dozens of times. I would just like you to keep in mind that people who give up their babies for adoption move on in life. They have new families, new situations. Being confronted by their past can be extremely—”

“I’ll keep all that in mind,” Mary interrupted, her fingers drumming the desk. “I would like my file.”

The paralegal regarded her briefly, then handed Mary a folder. “I hope things work out for you,” she said.

Mary was too busy searching through the papers to hear her. She went through them once and then again, and then turned to me in disbelief and told me there was nothing in them. I took the folder from her and went through it myself. She wasn’t quite right. While it didn’t identify her birth parents, it did list the name of Arthur Minnefield, a lawyer from Oklahoma City, who had obtained the baby for adoption.

“It doesn’t say who my parents are,” Mary murmured again.

“The adoption forms usually don’t,” the paralegal stated. “They usually only list the source of the adoption.”

That wasn’t a hundred percent right. More often than not they also include the names of the birth parents. Thinking about the hoops Wilson had put me through simply to get the name of another lawyer made my foot start to itch. I would’ve liked nothing more than to have booted her out the window. I considered whether it was worth owing Tom Morton a favor and at least having her booted out of the firm, but after taking a deep breath, decided to let it pass. I copied down the name of the Oklahoma City attorney and then dropped the folder onto her desk.

Mary was visibly upset. I guess she had convinced herself that she was finally going to find out who her parents were. Sort of like a kid waiting for her Christmas present only to open an empty box. It was cruel, but you see, life just ain’t easy. Even when it should be. Even when you’re doing okay and have a successful business and have people clapping you on the back and asking for your autograph. Even with all that, you still end up having your nose rubbed in it day in, day out. I guess Mary was just too young to understand.

To cheer her up I offered to take her out for dinner. We ended up at a barbecue joint I know in North Denver. Mary brooded, chewing halfheartedly at a baby back rib. I watched her for a while and then remarked how we at least knew where she was from.

“We know the lawyer who arranged for my adoption is from Oklahoma City,” she corrected me.

“Odds are, so are you. I’ll make some calls. If I don’t get anywhere, I’ll head out there myself. Probably tomorrow afternoon.”

“Do you think you’ll find anything?”

“No doubt about it.” I licked some barbecue sauce off my fingers and drank down half a pint of beer. “I’m sure Minnefield’s records show who your birth parents are. I have a good feeling about this, Mary.”

She took another nibble from her rib and then put it down. “I’m too nervous to eat.”

“Don’t be. I could be in Oklahoma for a few days. I would hate to think of you starving to death before I got back.”

Her face had gotten very pale. “You really think you’re going to find out who my parents are?”

The way she was looking at me did something to me. It was so touching, so innocent, her soft brown eyes so large and trusting. It gave me a warm feeling in my chest. I told her it was almost certain I would come back from Oklahoma City with the names of both her parents. I couldn’t see any way that I wouldn’t be able to find them. It was simply a matter of tracking down the lawyer.

After dinner I dropped Mary off a couple of blocks from the Statler Building where she had parked her car. I went back to my office and checked for messages. There was one from Max Roth saying that he had made some progress and expected to have the job finished by the end of the week and he wouldn’t be needing any help from me. The other messages were from prospective clients. I copied down their details and then flipped though my pile of open case reports.

There was a knock on my door. Mary came in, hesitated, and then took a step towards me.

“I’m sorry, I don’t want to bother you,” she started, her words kind of rushing together. “I just want to thank you for everything you’re doing for me. I can’t tell you how important this is to me.”

As she talked her eyes changed subtly. There was an aching in them, a determination. They made my knees turn to water. I started to say something but just couldn’t think. I could hear my heart pounding. I’m pretty sure I could hear hers also. I took a step towards her and then things got kind of crazy. Her body was up against mine, pushing itself hard into me and at the same time twisting itself away. Her hands holding me tight but also punching and struggling. Everything had become dizzy, light, all I could sense and feel and smell was her. The room seemed to flip over. Then we were on the floor, squeezed between my desk and the wall, my lips brushing against hers, tasting them, feeling their warmth. Her body under mine, shivering, struggling fiercely yet keeping me from getting up. Her hands penetrating my clothing, her nails running over my skin . . . .

I started thinking of Debra Singer and her father. In my mind’s eye I could see them, a fortyish-year-old man pushing himself onto a little girl, and then we became them, myself Craig Singer and Mary the skeleton-thin Debra. A wave of nausea rolled over me. I pushed myself up, breaking free of her hold, and then fell back to the floor, vomiting. I heard her cry out, asking what was wrong. I couldn’t answer. I kept heaving, again and again, long after there was anything left inside me. Through it all I begged her to forgive me, begged her and the baby Jesus and God to somehow let me live with my suffering. Her thin arms were around me, holding me tight, squeezing me. It was so damn crazy. I could feel her body sobbing against mine. After a while I heard her promising that everything would be alright.

It seemed like an eternity before I could breathe again. I staggered to my feet, breaking free of Mary, and steadied myself against my desk. My whole body was drenched in sweat. My clothes were soaked. I murmured something about being right back and made my way out of the office and down the hallway to the bathroom.

I groaned as I looked in the mirror. I looked like hell. My eyes were blood red, my face white and shiny wet with perspiration and tears. I turned the cold water on and put my head under the faucet. It helped a little. I tried rinsing out my mouth to get rid of the salty vile taste. All it did was dull the taste a bit. The room had been rocking back and forth and now started to spin. I dropped onto the toilet and lowered my head to my knees and waited until the spinning stopped.

When I returned back to the office Mary was on her knees scrubbing the linoleum with some paper towels. Her face was flushed, worn out. She saw me and got back up and sat down at the desk. She gave me a worried smile. I went straight to my chair and fell into it. A bottle of rye was mercifully waiting for me. I opened the bottom drawer of my desk and took out the rye and gulped down about a third of a pint.

When I put the bottle down I saw Mary watching me. “I never had that kind of reaction with a guy before,” she said, trying to keep her smile intact.

I needed another drink bad. When I lifted the bottle my hand was shaking worse than the time with Craig Singer. Some of the booze spilled on my shirt as I swallowed a few more shots. I took one last mouthful and spat it into the wastebasket, gagging. I still had that taste in my mouth. I felt it all the way down my throat.

“I’m sorry, Mary,” I said when I could. “I don’t know what happened. I’m really sorry.”

“So you don’t do that with all the girls?”

I shook my head, trying to clear it. “No, I’d say that’s a first. I guess I started thinking about my last case—about that girl’s poppa sexually abusing her. I guess it just really hit me hard.”

“Hard isn’t the word.”

“I guess it isn’t.” I started to laugh but my stomach ached too much. I took out a handkerchief and wiped it along my forehead and then wrung it out into the wastebasket.

Mary was studying me. “You had me scared,” she said. She sounded scared.

“I’m really sorry.” I rubbed the handkerchief along the back of my neck and then over my face. I wanted nothing more than to change out of my clothes and crawl into bed and hide. “I must’ve started thinking about our age difference and how it was sort of the same with that girl and her father.”

“It’s nothing at all like that. First of all I was a willing participant, at least sort of.”

When she said “sort of” it made me cringe. It brought a sickish feeling back to my stomach. She seemed to sense it, and struggled to show me her smile again.

“I’m not sure what happened,” she said.

“Why don’t we discuss it when I get back from Oklahoma? I’m going to have a hard day tomorrow searching for your birth parents.”

She nodded. “We’ll wait ‘til then.” She stood up and frowned as she looked at me. “Are you okay? You look really sick.”

“I’ll be fine. I just need some rest.”

“You’ll call me as soon as you find something?”

I nodded.

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

I watched as she left and then sat back and wondered why I’d had that reaction. Why had I got sicker than any dog? I couldn’t figure it out.

Chapter 5

First thing next morning I spoke with Jimmy Tobbler. He was disappointed to hear that his job was cut short. We argued back and forth about whether he should be paid for the previous day. Even though I’d called early in the morning he didn’t get the message until after he’d put in a hard day’s work interviewing the girls at Tiny’s peep show. He also didn’t want to have to eat the expense money he laid out that day in tips. We worked out a compromise; I’d pay him for the day, but the tips would come out of his own pocket. He agreed to send back what was left of the retainer.

Arthur Minnefield wasn’t listed with information. I made a call to the Oklahoma Bar, found out that Minnefield had died fifteen years earlier and was given the number of his widow. When I explained to her who I was and what I wanted, she told me she still had all her husband’s files and agreed to let me look through them.

I took a nine-thirty train to Oklahoma City. It was an eight-hour ride, during which I tried to think things over. I decided nothing made any sense. That’s pretty much the only way to explain what had happened with Craig Singer and later with Mary.

I guess with Singer I must’ve cracked. Even though I’ve made a success of myself there’s still a lot of crap I got to take. Anyone in my situation has to. All the winks and nods. Shoveling up your client’s messes. Making sure to look the other way when it’s in their interest. It’s all part of the job and it builds up inside you. When a piece of scum like Singer comes around, you just let it out.

And once the genie is out of the bottle . . . .

It had to be something like that. Because what happened with Mary made no sense whatsoever. I’d been with quite a few gals in my life—as my faithful readers can attest to—and while it hadn’t always gone smoothly, it never ended up before with me on my knees retching my guts out.

It just made no sense.

* * * * *

The train didn’t pull into Oklahoma City until six, and by the time I rented a car and checked into a hotel it was past seven. I called Arthur Minnefield’s widow and told her I’d be over in the morning.

Irene Minnefield had to be close to eighty, a shriveled gray-haired little thing peering up at me through thick glasses. We were sitting in her living room and she was holding a plate of oatmeal cookies with both her hands. She pushed the plate towards me.

“I got up early to bake them,” she told me, letting me in on her little secret. To oblige her I took one and chewed on it. It tasted a bit like sawdust.

“You’re the first person who’s needed to see Mr. Minnefield’s files,” she said, disappointed, no doubt, that she hadn’t had more opportunities to bake oatmeal cookies in all these years.

I showed her Mary’s picture. I told her how her husband had arranged for Mary’s adoption and how I was hoping his files would list her birth parents. She put down the plate of cookies and grasped the photo with both hands.

“My, what a pretty girl,” she remarked. “Mr. Minnefield and I never had children.” There was a note of regret in her voice.

“Could you show me where his files are?”

I took Mary’s picture from her and helped her out of her chair. She led me toward the basement. “My nephew put them down there for me,” she said at the top of the stairs.

I turned the light on and went down alone. The basement was unfinished, with a dirt floor. Water and heating pipes hung down low, so I had to crouch. No one had bothered to clean the place in years. It was filthy. About a third of the floor was stacked with boxes. None of them were marked and it didn’t take me long to realize there was no order as to how things were stored in them. I’d have to go through each box, checking each individual paper in it.

Irene Minnefield came down after two hours bringing more oatmeal cookies and milk. She stood around chatting incessantly, telling me all about her late husband. After a while her voice was like a dentist drill grinding in my ear and I started to get a headache. The mustiness of the basement didn’t help.

“It sure seems like Mr. Minnefield saved everything,” I said.

“He was a very careful man,” Mrs. Minnefield said, her raisin-like eyes brightening with pride.

With half a dozen boxes to go I found the Williams’ adoption papers. Mary was obtained from the Oklahoma City Baptist Hospital on July 30, 1977. It didn’t list her birth parents. It also didn’t list the date of her birth.

I thanked Mrs. Minnefield for her help. She seemed disappointed I was leaving. “Would you like lunch? I could make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Or if you like, I could heat up some soup?”

“No thanks, ma’am. I have to get going.”

I stacked the boxes back in place and helped Mrs. Minnefield up the stairs. At the door she told me if I needed anything else to be sure to call her.

After stopping off at my hotel to shower and change into some clean clothes, I headed for the Baptist Hospital.

* * * * *

I asked the woman at the records office if she could get me the birth records from May through July 1977. She looked annoyed but she made her way over to one of the file cabinets, walking as if she had pebbles in her shoes. After a few minutes she came back with a folder and handed it to me.

I went through the folder and started copying down names, putting asterisks next to the ones where the father’s name was blank. I had about twenty reasonable candidates. As I read over the names a funny feeling hit me in the stomach. Kind of like I’d swallowed a peach pit.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

I steadied myself against her desk, not knowing what the hell had come over me. “I’ll be all right in a second,” I said.

* * * * *

The next two days I crossed off all but one name from my list. There were a few cases where the daughter couldn’t be accounted for, but in none of these was there any physical resemblance between Mary and the mother. The last name on my list was Rose Martinez. Something about the name troubled me, something I couldn’t quite put my finger on.

I found her address in the phone book and drove out to a small clapboard shack on the outer edge of Oklahoma City. There wasn’t much to it and there was almost nothing to the little strip of land that made up her front yard. Nothing more, really, than a pile of dust with a few wild thorn bushes growing out of it. Standing in front of her house, I felt that same odd feeling in my stomach. I waited until it passed and then walked up to her door and rang the bell.

I stood there trying to figure out what it was about that name. Rose Martinez . . . Rose Martinez. Why did it sound so damn familiar? All of a sudden I remembered. A panic overtook me as I cleared the lawn and dove headfirst over one of the thorn bushes, bouncing off my left shoulder. I felt a tightness in my gut suck my breath away and realized my back wasn’t going to be right for days.

The door opened and a smallish, dark woman peered out. It was the same Rose, older of course, but there she was.

At that moment a man driving past the house spotted me hiding behind the thorn bush, and seeing Rose standing there looking puzzled, decided he was going to slow down and stick his nose into things. I caught his eye and let him know he’d better not try it. He looked away and kept driving.

I turned my gaze back to the house as Rose picked something off her walkway, and realized I had dropped Mary’s picture. As Rose studied the photo, her puzzlement slowly dissolved into a kind of pained blankness. I could see the resemblance between the two of them, and I was sure Rose could see it too. It was funny, though. She didn’t bother calling out to see who had rung the doorbell and run off. She turned back into the house and closed the door.

Rose Martinez. Rose Martinez Murphy. She must have gone back to her maiden name after her husband’s death. I didn’t really know her— only met with her that one time years ago. I guess it must have seemed crazy, me reacting the way I did, but I couldn’t help it. After what had happened all those years ago . . . .

Standing on Rose’s doorstep and realizing who she was, I felt as if my heart had dropped to my feet. I just didn’t feel it was right to bring back what had to be hell to that poor woman. Not with all she must have been through and me being somewhat to blame. After all, I was the one who killed her husband.

Sometimes you look back at something that happened in your life and you swear it couldn’t have happened. The more you think about it, the crazier it seems. And you just about convince yourself it was something from a movie you once saw or maybe from a story you heard. The same is true with people you once knew. A name might pop into your head and you start wondering whether or not you ever knew that person. And after thinking about it you realize at one time in your life the two of you were drinking buddies or worst of enemies or lovers or whatever. But when you think about it some more, it doesn’t seem possible.

That’s the way it is when I think about Walt Murphy and that afternoon all those years ago. The thing is, I have newspaper clippings to prove that we did meet up once. And that I ended up shooting him to death.

That day Walt Murphy had called me to arrange an appointment. Over the phone he told me he thought his wife was cheating on him. There’s not a whole lot someone like me can do about a thing like that, except maybe confirm his suspicions or provide evidence for a divorce trial, and that’s all I assumed he wanted. When he showed up at my office he seemed normal enough, a little wild in the eyes maybe, but I wouldn’t have guessed him for a lunatic. Just an average guy who was down on his luck. He started telling me about his problems and when he got to his wife, something snapped.

Whatever edge he was balancing on crumbled away. He started ranting that he wanted his wife dead and demanded to know how much it would cost to blow her brains out. I should’ve taken him more seriously. I got him to be quiet but I should have known the craziness that had taken him over was too far gone. There was a fire raging in his eyes and I should have known better than to turn my back to him. All hell broke loose when I did. My legs were knocked out from under me and I did a headfirst tumble. As I lay there, tangled up with my chair and the phone, he kicked away at my head like it was a tree stump he was trying to turn over.

He must have guessed I had a gun because he broke off trying to kick in my teeth to start tearing my desk apart. In the position I was in, I was about as much use as a turtle flipped on its back. It was about all I could do to get to my knees. As he was taking the gun out of the drawer I threw myself at him.

The rest of it, at least until the shots were fired, is pretty much a blur. All I can really remember is fighting like hell, thinking that I was going to die, shot to death for something that just didn’t make any sense. And then came the explosions. Two of them. If I had to swear on it, I would have said that bombs had been set off under me. But there weren’t any bombs. There were only two things under me—my gun and him, at least some of him. I jumped up and saw there was a lot less of him than there should have been. Most of his head was gone and a bloody mess remained where his belly used to be.

The toughest thing I ever did in my life was to stay put and call the police. I didn’t think anyone could possibly believe me. The whole thing was so damn crazy, but I guess if you think about it, any other explanation for what happened would have been even crazier.

As the police questioned me, I sweated bigger bullets than the ones that chewed up Murphy. I had convinced myself it was useless, and was more shocked than anyone else about how things turned out. Because in the end, three things happened: the cops believed me; my hair turned gray as a cigar ash; and my career shot off faster than the top of Walt Murphy’s head.

All of a sudden I was a hero. At least that’s the way the media made me out to be. With all the newspaper stories and the radio and TV appearances, I became just about the best-known private investigator in Denver. Not only did I have clients lining up outside my door to hire me, but the papers were knocking down that door to get whatever piece of me they could. The Examiner paid me to write up my own firsthand account of the incident, which evolved into my regular monthly feature ‘The Fast Lane—from the files of Johnny Lane’. It has appeared faithfully ever since, and, along with my smiling mug shot, has become an institution to the Denver public.

I’m grateful for my success and I don’t want to sound as if I’m complaining, but I wish it had happened another way. I don’t like thinking of Walt Murphy lying dead on my floor. I don’t like to think I benefited from his death. Maybe if I’d tried humoring him that afternoon none of it would have happened. Maybe he would’ve been able to get some help and would’ve pulled his life back together. Or maybe not. Maybe things would have ended up worse, with him blowing his wife’s head off. You see, I don’t know whether I screwed up or not. I don’t have a clue.

Chapter 6

I had done what I was hired for and there wasn’t any reason to hang around. I went back to my motel and packed up. I was feeling empty inside so I stopped at a diner and had a second breakfast of steak and eggs. After adding a piece of pie I headed off to the station. I always like traveling by train if I can. When you’re sitting back in a train you can put your feet up and take time to sort out what’s troubling you. And I had quite a problem to sort out.

I arrived at the station a little past ten and the next train to Denver wasn’t leaving until one, so I settled down to think things through. I didn’t like the way it stood. Mary hired me to find her birth parents and I did—at least her mother. It certainly seemed I should give her what she’d paid me for, but I also had an obligation to do what was best for my client.

I knew Rose Martinez wouldn’t be too happy about meeting her daughter. When the media took the Walt Murphy shooting into its jaws and started shaking it, I landed pretty much on my toes, but they dumped Rose hard on her ass. And while she was flat on the ground they kicked the tar out of her. By the time they were through with her, she was the biggest tramp in Colorado—a cheating whore who drove her husband to the edge of insanity.

Whether or not there was any truth in the accusation, the result was that Denver became an unwelcome place for her. It’s pretty easy to understand why she’d wanted to put it all behind her. The baby would’ve been a tough thing to come home to every day, a reminder of all the humiliation and pain she’d suffered. I guess putting little Mary up for adoption was her way of escaping it.

I had to agree with Mary’s mother. I couldn’t see any good coming from Mary finding Rose. And I’ll tell you, I looked at it from so many angles I started to get dizzy. You could bet how it would hit Rose. Like a sucker punch to the gut. And of course, she’d take it right out on Mary. To let it happen would be sadistic.

So there it was. I could do what I was paid for and ignore the right and wrong of it, but what the hell would that make me?

An old man sitting nearby was giving me a cold stare and it knocked me out of my thoughts. With his round bald head and big rubbery face, he resembled a bloated bullfrog. I gave him a friendly smile; my Poppa always taught me that it never hurt none to be nice to folks.

“Howdy. Anything I can do for you, sir?”

He seemed a little startled. “Thank you, no. Where you heading?”

“Denver, Colorado.” I extended my hand and introduced myself. “Johnny Lane. Pleased to meet you.”

He ignored my hand and kept staring at me. “You live in Denver?” he asked after a long while.

Now, when you go out of your way to be friendly, people should be friendly right back. There is no reason not to, and with the snub the old man gave me I started feeling a little hot. But you can’t always account for other folks. I pulled my hand back.

“Yes, sir,” I said. “Maybe you’ve heard of me. I’m sort of a celebrity there.”

He shook his head. “Never been to Denver. You from there?”

“As far back as I can remember.”

With that the old man leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes.

I looked him over, feeling a burning around my neck as I did so. Sitting there, looking at the old man’s toad-like features I felt the hotness spreading, tightening the veins in my throat. I got up quickly and found the men’s room. After splashing cold water on my face, I stood quietly and studied myself in the mirror. Slowly the hotness faded and the muscles in my jaws softened.

There was no point in letting that old man upset me the way he did. You have to figure he was senile and didn’t realize how he was acting. It’s just that, well, forget it.

* * * * *

I’d spent most of the trip back to Denver worrying, and by the time I arrived home I was worn out. The problem was that I hadn’t been able to concentrate on what I needed to. For some reason I kept letting that old man at the station pop into my head. It bothered me that I let him get to me. But this picture of me holding out my hand only to be made to look like a jackass kept getting me more and more sore. It was so pointless letting that bother me that it just got me angrier. And what bothered me more than anything was how close I came to losing control.

* * * * *

By the time I laid myself out on my bed, I wasn’t any closer to figuring out how things needed to be handled. I tried again to think things through, but everything got more jumbled than before and soon I wasn’t making any sense out of anything.

I had myself a beer and brought a bottle of whiskey back to bed. After a couple of shots, the muscles in my neck relaxed. I turned off the lights and closed my eyes.

I had a restless time of it. Images of Walt Murphy and the shooting raced through my mind, and at times I was probably closer to hallucinating than dreaming. The whole incident played itself out as it happened, at least to the point where the police showed up. Then it got crazy. The cops wouldn’t believe me and kept laughing and poking at me. I tried to tell them how it had happened, but they were laughing too hard to listen. Before I knew it, they had me by the collar and were dragging me down a hallway, handling me as if I were nothing more than a rag doll—kind of the way Tiny had dragged Debra Singer from the back room of his peep show.

They took me to a small windowless room that was empty except for a wooden chair that was bolted to the floor. As we got closer to it, I realized what it was. Before I could say a word they strapped me into it. Then they left, joking and slapping each other’s backs. The sound of the door slamming behind them almost shattered my eardrums.

After what seemed like an eternity, the door opened and Rose Murphy came in. It scared the hell out of me to see her. I tried explaining to her how I had done only what I had to, but she wouldn’t listen. She came over to me and pulled out a large razor. At first I thought she was going to cut my throat, but instead she grabbed me by the top of the skull and shaved my head. Then she attached wires to my scalp.

I had my eyes closed, and when I opened them she’d moved to a heavy-looking wall switch. She hesitated before it, staring blankly at me. Then, using both hands and straining her body, she forced the switch down. For one heartbeat, there was nothing. All at once electricity burst through my body, jerking it. Smoke started to pour from my fingertips. The hum of the electric chair blasted through me—and I was screaming, almost as loud as Rose.

I woke up with the phone ringing. At first I was too startled to realize where I was. With an overwhelming sense of relief, the disorientation lifted. I closed my eyes and listened to the phone, trying to slow down the pounding of my heart before something inside broke.

The answering machine kicked on and after the beep there was a long silence. Then I heard Mary’s voice asking me to call her as soon as I got home.

The machine clicked off and I lay there thinking. I hated the idea of disappointing Mary but it didn’t seem as if there was anything else I could do. Getting them together wouldn’t do Rose any good, it wouldn’t do Mary any good, and it sure as hell wouldn’t do me any good.

Now I don’t want to sound selfish or anything but the idea of Mary knowing I’d shot her daddy made me uneasy. If she knew that, even if she understood that I had no choice, it would change things. And God knows what Rose would tell her.

That one time I met with Rose, she was as upset as you’d expect from everything that had happened to her. Maybe she didn’t believe what she was saying, but hell, her accusations were just too bizarre to repeat. I wouldn’t want Mary hearing them. Even though there was no truth in any of them, they would have some influence on her. I wouldn’t like to think of her hating me, even just a little.

I got up and examined myself in the mirror. The last few years a vein along my left eye had started to expose itself. I tried to tell if it had gotten any bigger and decided it hadn’t.

After taking a shower, I rubbed my hand over my face, testing whether I needed a shave. I’ve got one of those baby faces that can go past a week without needing to take a razor to it. If it wasn’t for the gray hair, folks would have a tough time guessing I’d hit forty-two.

My skin was smooth enough to let the blade wait another day. I got dressed and headed off for work. As I drove towards the city, I could see the sun hadn’t yet risen past the cloud of brown smog which sits atop Denver. Sunlight illuminated the cloud, making it appear as if the city were about to be smothered.

I didn’t have much of an appetite, but I guess I felt too off-kilter to jump right into work. After parking the car, I walked to the Corner Diner. Carol was in her usual place working behind the counter. When she saw me come in she gave me a wink and came over and started mopping up the area in front of me.

“Hello, Johnny. Do you know how that girl’s doing?”

It took me a few seconds to realize she was referring to Debra Singer. “I hear everything’s fine with her.”

“I’m so glad I didn’t screw things up for you.” She gave me a playful smile. “I think I got a case for you. Some stiff walked away with a fifty cent tip of mine. How much will it cost to find him?”

“Well now,” I said. “I usually charge four hundred a day, but for you, honey, I’ll consider it for a little extra hash browns.”

“Food! That’s all he ever wants from me is food!” She gave the guy sitting next to me a little slap on the arm. “You know who that is next to you? That’s Johnny Lane, the detective. The one in the Examiner.”

That got some fellow diners to turn around and give me a look. It wasn’t long before I was telling stories and folks were shaking my hand and patting me on the back. The black mood I had been drifting into was all but gone. By the time I finished eating I was feeling pretty good, feeling confident that I was doing the right thing with Mary and that everything would work out. I had a third cup of coffee and kidded Carol a little. By the time I left everything was fine with the world.

Once back at my office, I checked in with my answering service and got a list of messages. More than half were from Mary. After a few tries, I located her at school. She was too excited to listen to me at first. After calming her down I gave her the bad news about the trip being a bust. I asked if she could stop by for a talk, which was like asking a politician if he could stomach a contribution. We agreed to meet in a half hour.

Chapter 7

Mary looked miserable. “I don’t understand. You seemed so sure you were going to find them.”

We had been at it for a while now. I let my eyes close. “With these things you never know for sure,” I said, trying to keep my voice under control. “I did think I was on the right track, but out in Oklahoma I hit a stone wall.”

She was struggling to keep the tears back. The corners of her mouth were quivering and I sped up, hoping to keep the dam from breaking open. “If you think about it, tracing a full grown woman back to the parents who gave her up for adoption can be close to impossible. A mother giving up her baby is usually doing it for a good reason but that doesn’t stop her from feeling ashamed about it. So she doesn’t cooperate by supplying agencies or hospitals with any useful information. What you end up with is birth certificates and hospital records listing the mother as JANE DOE.”

“What are you trying to tell me, that you can’t do the job?”

“Well, no,” I said, a little hurt. “If the job can be done, then I can do it. I’m just trying to tell you that these things don’t always happen the way you’d expect them to.”

I heard the door to my anteroom open and excused myself to find Max Roth standing there looking uncomfortable. I asked him to take a seat and wait. Back in my office, Mary was sitting with her head bowed, pulling at her fingers. When I sat down, she slowly lifted her head and peeked at me. “I’m sorry, Johnny,” she said. “I didn’t mean to snap at you. I know you’ve been trying your best. I guess I’m disappointed and a little frustrated. You seemed so positive before you left. And I thought knowing the name of that lawyer would make it easy. I—”

She lowered her eyes. I could tell she was having trouble putting her thoughts together. It was as if she were trying to express herself in a foreign language and only knew a few of the words.

“I know,” she continued slowly, “it might be hard for other people to understand, but I need to find who my real parents are. I have to know who I really am.”

Her shoulders started shaking and I could see it was useless. I took a deep breath and waited and sure enough the tears started flowing. I got up and patted her head, telling her everything was going to be okay and being as sympathetic as all hell.

After a while the crying stopped. I took out a handkerchief and mopped up around her eyes. After blowing her nose, she looked up at me and bit her lip. “This is embarrassing,” she said. “Usually I’m not like this.”

“Don’t worry about it. You’ve been wanting this awful bad and it’s only natural to get shaken up a bit when you’ve been let down.” I hemmed and hawed a little before continuing. “I hate seeing you torn up like this. Should it really be this important for you to find your birth parents?”

“I don’t know, Johnny. But it is.”

“Your adoptive parents are nice folks, better than most people could hope for. Maybe you should be satisfied with them. It would be a shame to end up spending all this money and time only to find out something you might be better off not knowing. There’s a reason why a pretty little baby is given up for adoption.”

She shook her head, her jaws tightening with determination.

“I’ve got to find them,” she said. “I’ve been wanting to ever since I was twelve—that’s when I found out I was adopted. Frank and Julie are wonderful parents and I love them. But that doesn’t mean I don’t need to know who I really am.”

“What if it turns out your real mother was a prostitute? Or your daddy was a madman? Or a murderer?”

“Why are you saying that?”

I gave her a sympathetic smile. “Mary, some things are better left alone. Maybe this is one of them.”

“I don’t want to leave it alone.”

“How’s your job going?” I asked.

“What—it’s going okay.”

“It must be awful hard,” I said, “going to college during the day and then working nights at that convenience store. Just to pay for this.”

“It’s my decision.” She forced a weak smile. “I’m an adult, you know.”

I leaned back in my chair and decided to go at it from a different angle. “When I first started out as a private detective I had a case similar to this. This boy, he felt the same as you, that he couldn’t be happy unless he was able to meet with his birth parents. And—”

Mary cut in, giving me a cross-eyed look. “I’m really not interested in this,” she insisted.

“I appreciate that,” I stumbled on, “but it might help to hear me out. I found this boy’s momma for him. After more sweat and hard work I found his daddy had been long dead, killed in prison. It turned out that my client, well let’s just say, was the product of a rape and grew up to be the spitting image of his daddy. When he showed up at his momma’s door and she got a look at him, something in her snapped.”

Mary’s eyes drifted away from me. My story was boring her and I couldn’t help feeling a little hot under the collar. I cleared my throat and continued, wishing I had never started.

“When she looked at this boy she didn’t see him as her long lost son. Instead she saw the son of a bitch who had raped her years before. By the time anyone was able to get her off him, she had half his face scratched up and had almost cut out one of his eyes. My client didn’t end up any happier and neither did his mother.”

Mary was looking around impatiently. “I don’t understand why you’re telling me this. It’s not going to change my mind. And besides, I don’t think I have to worry about being the spitting image of a rapist.”

I leaned further back in my chair and gave her a hard look. She was so damn determined and headstrong. There was no sense trying to talk her out of it. For a second, I almost told her the truth. I wanted to, but it would have ended up causing too much pain.

I let out my breath slowly. “I only want to make sure you understand what you might be up against. If you want me to keep looking, I’ll do just that.”

“I appreciate that, Johnny.” She blushed, lowering her eyes from mine. “There’s something else, something we haven’t talked about. The night before you left. I know things got kind of weird, but before that everything happened too quickly for me. I guess I wasn’t ready for it. But that doesn’t mean I don’t want it to happen. Only that we need to take it more slowly.”

Her face had turned red. I forced a smile and told her I felt awful about it, and that I hoped the two of us could forget it ever happened.

She looked startled, not expecting what I said. “That’s not at all what I’m trying to say. I don’t feel bad about it and you shouldn’t either. And I’m not saying we should stop!”

I shook my head. “We have to. It was plain wrong with you being as vulnerable as you are right now, and well, me being as old as I am.”

“Why are you acting like this? You didn’t—” And she stopped herself cold. She gave me an odd kind of look, almost as if she were seeing me for the first time, and sat there for a good minute trying to make up her mind about something. Finally she told me I was probably right. She looked down at her nails and added, “I better be going. You’ll let me know as soon as you find out anything?”

I nodded, my smile strained. “And don’t worry. I’ll find them for you.” I watched, almost hypnotically, the rhythmic motion of her hips as she walked towards the door. She hesitated slightly and then she was gone. As the door closed behind her, I couldn’t help but feel a little empty inside. As if I had screwed up and lost something I couldn’t afford to lose.

That night before I left for Oklahoma . . . .

I closed my eyes and played it back in my mind. The way Mary’s lips felt brushing against mine, the way she smelled and how dizzy and light everything became. And then the sickness rolling over me. For a moment I could feel it again, the dull nausea swirling in my head and stomach. I could feel it way down in my throat, pushing its way up. I squeezed my eyes shut and forced the images out of my head.

The hell with it. The hell with all of it.

It wasn’t as if there was anything to be ashamed of. I had stopped it way before that. Anyways, I didn’t show her anything she hadn’t seen before. I bet if I had kept going she would have taught me a few new tricks. It’s just like everything else; you try so hard in this lifetime and, well, like I said, the hell with it.

And besides, the two of us were nothing at all like Craig Singer and his daughter.

Nothing at all like that . . . .

I took a deep breath and let it out slowly, turning my mind back to what I needed to focus on. I wasn’t going to be able to talk Mary out of searching for her parents. Something else was going to have to be thought up because if Mary didn’t get what she was paying me for, sooner or later she was going to lose faith in me and hire herself another detective.

He’d find Rose for her. He’d have to. It was easy enough for me to do it.

With a start, I heard Max’s voice coming from the anteroom. His voice was hushed as if he were trying to keep it low, and I realized he had to be talking to Mary. I was so wrapped up in my own thoughts I’d forgotten about him.

I couldn’t make out what he was saying, but I knew what he was after. He’d be making it sound as if the two of us were closer than brothers and all the while dropping snide hints and innuendos about me. And acting every bit as dumb and innocent as he looked. “Johnny, great guy, give you the shirt off his back if you needed it. Used to be a pretty good detective before people started asking for his autograph. I guess with all that, you can’t help getting a little careless.” And he’d be worming out of Mary what she had hired me for, and then building himself up as if God had put him on earth specifically to help her. All to chisel me out of a client.

I have a rule among the detectives that work for me that I, and I alone, meet with the clients. Over the years I caught him sneaking behind my back a few times. That’s what happens with some folks when you try to treat them fair. They look to stick it to you as soon as you’re bent over and ignorant to the world. And I couldn’t have been any fairer to Max over the years, always giving him the benefit of the doubt. Putting up with a lot of crap that any other sane person wouldn’t, letting him act as if I should be working for him instead of the way it was.

I had to laugh thinking about how his jaw would drop when Mary told him what she was paying me. He’d get her to tell him. No matter how hard up he was he wouldn’t want to work for that. And anyway, he was probably even dumber than he looked. If there was anyone out there who couldn’t find his ass from his elbow, let alone Rose, it was him.

* * * * *

It would look funny for me to go out there and say something, so I sat and waited. After a few minutes I heard the outer door to my office shut. I got up and asked Max to come in. He hesitated before taking my hand, and when he finally did, you’d think I was contagious with something particularly unpleasant. I gave him a big smile and an even bigger slap on the back as he made his way past me. We sat ourselves down and without as much as a how-do-y’-do he tried pushing a folder on me. I ignored it and made my smile nice and friendly.

“They put a new coffee machine out in the hallway. If you like I could get you some?”

He shook his head.

“Something from the vending machine? Gum? Candy bar?”

“No, nothing, thanks.”

“So, Max, how are things going for you?”

“I can’t complain,” he said, sounding hoarse, as if his throat had been scraped with sandpaper. “I’ve finished the Crowley job and have the report ready for you to look over.”

I waved it away. “My poppa always taught me that if you worry too much about business you’re plain worrying yourself too much. We can get to that in a little while. Speaking of little, how’s the missus doing?”

“Uh, she’s okay.”

“Well, I’m certainly glad to hear that. And how are your boys getting along?”

He shifted in his chair. “They, um.” He cleared his throat. “They’re doing okay too.”

“Regular chips off the old block, aren’t they?”

“Um, yes. But they—”

“Although,” I cut in, “you can see some of Moira’s features in them. Her better features, that is.”

“What do you mean by that?” he demanded, emotion muffling his voice.

“Nothing at all,” I said innocently. “Only that some of her features are better than others. Nobody in this world’s perfect.”

“I don’t know if—”

“Aw, come on.” I winked. “There’s nothing about her you would change if given the chance?”

“No!”

“There’s something about everyone that could be improved. Me, I’ve never been too happy about my nose. It’s a little too small and flat for my face.”

“I’m happy with her the way she is,” he insisted.

“That’s good to hear.” I nodded. “It sure must be something having a wife and family. How long has it been since I’ve seen them?”

“I’m not sure—”

“You know what? I’d really enjoy visiting you and Moira and your boys sometime.”

Of course I wouldn’t enjoy it at all. Not with the way Moira shuffled about, acting as if I were the reason for all her problems. And not with having to sit there with his boys. It was a shame the way they’d turned out, getting the worse they could possibly get from their parents. Growing up to be big, sullen and dull like their daddy, and with their mother’s pasty, colorless features. It really was a shame.

I wondered what it was like having a family like that. Waking up every morning knowing they’d be waiting for you at night. I wondered how Max has managed not to take his gun and . . . .

* * * * *

Max turned uneasily in his chair, working himself up as he tried to explain why right now wasn’t a good time for them to have company. “Sure we would like to have you over, but, uh, I need to talk to my wife.” His face turned redder as he continued, “Um, this is a bad time, though. Moira hasn’t been feeling well and there’s a lot to do around the house. But I’ll talk to her.”

I told him I understood and asked if he wouldn’t mind going over his report with me. And damned if he didn’t let loose with a sigh of relief! We started on the report with Max attacking the expenses first, justifying each item to death. He’d padded the amount of billable hours and was cheating me on the expenses but I sat there nodding in agreement. It doesn’t pay to be too hardnosed about these things, and besides, it wasn’t all that likely the client would notice. If he did, well, Max and I could always go over it again.

We quickly finished the report. Crowley Industrial Rentals was having a problem with some of its power tools disappearing. Max had traced them back to an employee who had been borrowing them to make his own pool table. It seems this fellow had his retirement coming up and thought a pool table would help pass all the idle time he was soon going to have. He never did get a chance to finish it and that was a shame, what with his retirement coming upon him faster than expected.

I was disappointed. Before leaving for Oklahoma I was planning to use Mary’s case for my next column, but that idea was no longer feasible. I had hoped Max would have something I could use, but his case was no good either. The public doesn’t like reading about a big company coming down hard on the little guy. Hell, I might as well pack up and close the office for the good that story would do me.

Max cleared his throat to get my attention. He asked if I had any cases he could take a crack at.

I shook my head and frowned. “It’s kind of slow right now. I’ll call you, though, as soon as something comes up.”

He started to get up, hesitated, and then sat back down. “Do you think you could pay me now for the Crowley job?”

“Now Max, you know I always pay after the client pays. But if you’re a little short I’d be glad to give you a loan.”

I reached for my wallet, making it slow. Max stopped me and mumbled to no one in particular to forget it. He stared at his hands. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you about something.”

“Sure, what’s on your mind?”

He hesitated for a second, and then said, “I’m not happy with our arrangement.”

I didn’t say a word. I let him go on.

“I don’t think forty percent is fair after all I’ve done for you.”

I’d had a good idea where the dissension in the ranks was coming from. Now I knew.

“That’s what I pay out,” I said. “None of the other detectives have ever complained about it. And it’s not like I’ve ever held a gun to your head and made you work for me. If you don’t like what I’m paying, you don’t have to take it.”

“Yeah, and what am I supposed to do?”

“It seems to me you could quit bitching and moaning and expecting a free ride from me. Maybe you should try standing on your own two feet for a change.”

His big face flushed with anger. “You promised me!”

“Aww,” I said under my breath.

“Well, you did.”

I looked him in the eye and we stared at each other. I was starting to get disgusted with the whole thing.

“Max,” I explained, “that’s just not true. I’ve always been on the level. I never promised you anything except the jobs I’ve given you. And I’ve always paid you fairly. You’ve gotten every dime I’ve owed you.”

“But,” he was beginning to get flustered, “what are you going to do? Change the names and turn that into next month’s adventure from the files of Johnny Lane?”

He was glaring at his report. I shook my head, showing my disappointment. “If you feel that strongly about it I certainly won’t. But you’re being unreasonable. You know that’s part of what’s agreed on. I’ll tell you what I think I am going to do,” I said, feeling a meanness edging into my voice. “Next month I’ll introduce my sidekick. Every hero needs a sidekick. Mine can be Max, the dickless dick. Got a nice ring to it. Yes sir, I think the whole next feature will be about how Max became the dickless dick. A pretty funny story, his girlfriend getting all excited and forgetting to take her false teeth out.”

That left him speechless. And there was quite a bit of truth in it, although you couldn’t really say he was dickless. A doctor was able to stitch it up for him, leaving it almost as good as new. But that’s an awful difficult thing to explain to your wife, why something like that needed to get stitched up. He just about begged me to feed Moira a story about it happening in the line of duty, and only God knows how I was able to do it with a straight face.

After a few seconds some color came back to his face. “I’ve spent almost twenty years working for you. Helping you build up clients and your business. And I did it because you promised you’d make me a partner.”

“No, sir. You’ve been working for me because it was the easy way out. I was able to offer you jobs without you having to go out and bust your own hump.” I could feel my temper slipping away. “How many other folks would let you charge five days for a two-day job? Maybe I should pay more attention to you boozing yourself up on my time. Maybe if you took a little responsibility for yourself and cleaned up your act and quit looking like a drunken slob, folks would consider hiring you. You look like a goddamned disgrace.”

And he did too. A good week’s worth of growth was planted on his face. And it would have taken a far greater detective than myself to figure out which had been cleaned last, his clothes or his hair. Which was just plain lazy, what with the little hair he had left.

He muttered something that sounded like ‘bass turd’, which was a funny thing to call somebody. I didn’t let it bother me since I couldn’t even begin to imagine what one of those would look like.

“Look,” I said. “When I was first starting out—”

“Yeah, I remember reading all about that and it’s something I’ve always wondered about. What exactly did happen?”

I’d had just about enough. Without really looking at him, I told him it had certainly been a pleasure and he could bet his check would be in the mail as soon as possible.

He gave me a screw-you-too look, walked as far as the door and stopped. A good while passed without him so much as moving, and then his shoulders collapsed. The sunlight drifting through the window cast his shadow on the opposite wall. With his head bowed and his shoulders slouched forward, it looked like the shadow of a man hanging by his neck.

He let out a low moan from deep in his gut. In a voice just above a whisper, he asked if we could try talking again.

I didn’t say anything. He sat back down and without looking at me, at least not exactly, he said, “I guess I lost my temper back there. I—things haven’t been going well for me.” He shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t know where my money goes. I guess with Moira and the boys, and all their expenses, it’s never enough. I’m sorry. I must have been mistaken about what I thought you promised me. This won’t happen again.”

He was looking as sick as can be. I took out the bottle of rye from my desk drawer and poured us both drinks. He took his in one gulp and I poured him a bigger one.

“These things happen,” I said. “I guess this must have been building up for some time now?”

He nodded in agreement.

“Moira’s been harping about it, hasn’t she? Getting you all worked up?”

“I-I—” he sputtered, looking awful uncomfortable. “I guess she’s been talking about it, but—”

“That’s what I thought,” I said. “You should have a talk with her and explain how much I’ve really done for you.”

“I’ll talk with her, Johnny. I’m sorry and—”

“Don’t worry about it. As far as I’m concerned, it’s forgotten.”

I offered him my hand and he took it, being a good deal friendlier about it than when he first came in. He reeled off a few more apologies and I told him again not to worry about any of it. Before leaving, he stopped at the door and asked if I would call him as soon as any jobs came up and I assured him I would.

I settled down to work, chipping away at the mountain of phone messages that had piled up during my absence. After an hour or so I ended up with one definite job and four appointments. Tommy Burns was available for work so I started him on it, giving him the information he needed over the phone.

I had hesitated before calling Burns. I couldn’t help feeling a little troubled thinking about Max. We went back a long way, and I was even the godfather to one of his boys. We used to be friends; at least I think we were. But the last few years things had been getting out of hand. And I didn’t like the fact he was bitching to Rude about me.

Of course I had never promised to make him my partner. I might have joked about it once over a bottle of scotch, but he knew I wasn’t serious. I thought some more about Max and the aggravation he was causing me. After a while, I made a decision. From now on he was only going to get exactly what I owed him.

Nothing.

Chapter 8

In Colorado a few years ago a car flew sixty feet through the air, crashed into a house and killed a woman sitting all alone by her sewing machine. It wasn’t the first car that had hit that particular house, but it was the first car that was airborne at the time.

The way the house was situated was partly to blame, being at the base of a steep hill, right where the road took a sharp ninety-degree turn. So it wasn’t that unusual for cars traveling down the hill to lose their brakes and go skidding into the front of the house. It happened about once a month and after a while the husband got sick of it and put some boulders out to protect his home and family.

What happened next, though, wasn’t what you would have expected. Sure enough, a car lost its brakes and skidded into those boulders. But instead of the boulders stopping the car, they acted as kind of a springboard, sending the car flying. You already know what happened next.

Now you may think it was just plain tragic, and it was, at least for the wife. And you probably would have thought so for the husband also. At least no one would have had any reason to think otherwise if he hadn’t bought an insurance policy on his wife three months earlier. A two and a half million dollar accidental death policy. You couldn’t blame his insurance company for being suspicious, and you sure as hell couldn’t blame them for hiring me to look into it.

I poked around for two weeks and came up with a hundred reasons that proved it wasn’t any accident. Number one: the husband was a mechanical engineer, and you would think he’d know how a car would act when it hit those boulders.

Number two were the boulders themselves. They were shaped like ramps, and were placed so that the lower edges faced the road. If you stood behind them you could see how a car would take off when it hit them.

Number three, he’d had a girlfriend for over a year before the accident. Reasons four through one hundred came from conversations with neighbors, relatives, and whoever else would talk with me. Before his wife’s death, he became obsessed that she use her sewing machine. There were fights about it, intimidation, and at times, he even locked her in the room. From what I was able to piece together, his obsession came about around the same time the boulders were put down. All those reasons, along with the insurance policy, were enough to know he had premeditated her death, but none of them were enough to do anything about it.

I ran out of ideas. I didn’t know what else to do but try putting a scare in him, letting him know I was onto him and that I was going to see him take the fall for his wife’s murder. When I confronted him, he admitted what he’d done, but he made it a big joke, gloating about it and leaving me with nothing. So there I was, knowing he killed his wife, and what was worse, he had me beat.

He was lucky his wife happened to be sitting where she was when the car went through the wall. Even though he had the game rigged, he couldn’t have known that for sure, but it was still a safe bet. If a car never hit the house, well, that was that. And if a car happened to go through the room and somehow left his wife alive, his home insurance would have paid for the damages. As it turned out, he rolled the dice and they came up sevens and there wasn’t a damned thing anyone could do about it.

The night I gave up on the case, I was consoling myself with a few drinks when I ran into Eddie Braggs. Eddie was (and still is) the managing editor of the Examiner. We started exchanging war stories and when I told him about this guy getting away with murder, Eddie just about exploded.

Eddie got him on the phone and before long he was shouting and cursing like a crazy man. I had never seen him get mad before, and to be honest, I didn’t think it was possible. The twinkle or sparkle or whatever that was always in his eyes was gone. And that look of his, as if he was just busting a gut to tell you a hot one, was replaced by a cold dead whiteness.

Eddie fed this guy a fairy tale about how his paper had evidence proving the accident had been planned, and that he was going to keep the story on the front page until the bastard was cold and stiff with a rope burn around his neck.

He kept at it for almost an hour, his face growing beet red. It was all pretty laughable but the way Eddie was saying it you didn’t want to laugh. The guy should have called Eddie’s bluff and hung up on him, but listening to Eddie you could understand why he didn’t. He ended up letting Eddie get under his skin. He panicked and offered a bribe. The next day the Examiner ran the headline: WIFE MURDERER OFFERS EXAMINER’S EDITOR 50 GRAND TO WITHHOLD EVIDENCE.

That was it as far as the husband’s neck was concerned.

The thing with Eddie was that the Examiner had run several stories sympathetic to this guy. So when Eddie heard it was a scam, he took it personally. The Examiner (which to Eddie, was the same as himself) had been played for a jerk.

That’s just the way Eddie was. On meeting him you would think he was just this fat jolly guy looking to clown around and give you a little ribbing. And most of the time you would be right. But if you crossed him, or if he somehow got it in his head that you did, you’d better not blink. He’d go right for your jugular. And if he got a good enough grip, he’d end up shaking you until something broke.

I guess all this helps explain why I got so rattled when I found out about the anonymous letters. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

* * * * *

I spent most of the day debating whether or not to write about Debra Singer for my column. My deadline had arrived and I had nothing else. There wasn’t much Craig Singer could do except make some noise, and no matter how much he made he wouldn’t be able to hide the fact that he had sexually abused his daughter for years. If he sued me or filed charges for assault he’d have to explain why he waited until my column came out. Still, the way I was feeling, I didn’t know if I’d be able to handle even a little noise from him. I also didn’t want to risk making things tougher for Debra.

At four I headed over to the Examiner’s offices to ask Eddie to reprint one of my old columns. I made my usual walk around the city desk, meeting with folks and swapping stories. I had an uneasy feeling that something was wrong. In the past when I’d made my rounds, folks gathered around to shoot the breeze. This time people were avoiding me and I couldn’t figure out why.

I knocked on Eddie Braggs’ door and walked in. He was on the phone, and with his free hand signaled for me to sit down. He was only five foot four but must have weighed close to two hundred and fifty pounds. With his bald head and beard and the way he always seemed to be ready to bust out chuckling, he reminded me (at least when he wasn’t steamed and looking for blood) of one of Santa’s fatter and jollier helpers.

He got off the phone and reached out to shake hands. “You have a new ‘Fast Lane’ for me?”

“That’s why I came down here,” I told him. “It’s been a slow month and I’ve come up empty. I need to ask a favor and have you reprint one of my old stories.”

He leaned back and pursed his lips. “That’s not good, Johnny, really not good at all. That’s the fourth time this year. And the timing couldn’t be worse.”

“Why’s that?”

“There have been some discussions recently,” he said. “We’ve been trying to decide whether to drop your feature. I’ll tell you, I’m one of the few supporters you have left.”

I had to swallow with the way my throat was drying up on me. “What’s going on?”

“Probably no more than you expect,” he shrugged. “People are feeling you’ve been taking us for granted. That the last few years you haven’t been putting as much into your column as you should. And your popularity with our readers has been dropping.”

“I’ve got to disagree. Plenty of folks stop me to shake my hand.”

“I’m not saying you don’t have your share of readers. I’m saying you don’t have nearly as many as you used to. According to our marketing studies you’ve got almost forty percent less. We don’t know if we can justify carrying you.”

I took a deep breath. “Look, if you drop me there are going to be some unhappy people out there. My column’s a tradition in this town.”

“Tradition or not, if we were to keep ‘The Fast Lane’, and you were to keep letting us down, where would that leave us?”

“Well, maybe I haven’t been putting as much into my column as I should, but—”

“No maybes about it, Johnny.”

My throat now felt as if I’d swallowed a cactus. “Okay,” I conceded. “Let’s say I’ve been taking things for granted. That doesn’t mean I can’t do better. What if I did more promotion? I haven’t been on a radio show in a long time and that would help get folks back into the fold.”

He was nodding, giving the idea some thought. “It would help,” he admitted. “At least it would calm some people down around here. I have an idea for this month’s column, so I’ll be generous and forgive you for now. You won’t let me down again, will you?”

I told him there was no chance of that, and I meant it. It wouldn’t happen overnight, probably take a few years, but if I was dropped from the paper, eventually my business would dwindle away to nothing. Without my column, folks would forget all about Johnny Lane. I would end up no better than Max Roth and I couldn’t let that happen.

“Good.” Eddie gave me a false smile. “That’s what I want to hear.” He paused for a moment. “There’s something else,” he said. “We’ve been getting anonymous letters about you.”

At first all I could do was stare at him. After a while I asked him what they said.

He started to laugh. It choked somewhere inside him and came out as a wheeze. “Mostly that you have been blackmailing your clients. You haven’t been doing that, have you?”

I blinked a few times before the impact of what he said hit me. Then I was so mad I could barely see. I snapped at him, asking him what the hell he thought.

As he looked at me his eyes closed to slits and that gave me a start. He was sizing me up. Then he started chuckling, his eyes back to normal.

“I’m sorry, Johnny. Just pulling your chain a little. Some people around here try to pull a story out from every piece of horse dung tossed against our door. I guess that’s part of working for a newspaper. Convicted until proven innocent.”

He laughed some more and again it died down pretty quick. “Let us hypothesize a little. If those letters are true, it means that we, the Examiner, have been promoting a common criminal, building him up into the public’s trusting eye for almost twenty years. I don’t believe I could have had my nose rubbed in it for that long without smelling anything.”

“If I found out I had,” he went on, “I would have no choice but to destroy the bastard, or at least use all the paper’s resources trying. I would feel obligated to hound him incessantly. Publish stories to get the public so incensed they’d as soon hang him as spit on him. Of course, the courts would soon enough feel they had no choice but to go after this bastard, and I’d make sure they did so with a vengeance. In the end, his life wouldn’t be worth a nickel.”

He winked at me. “I’ll tell you, Johnny, it’s a good thing those letters are crap.

* * * * *

God only knows how I sat there. The pounding in my ears had gotten so bad I could barely hear above it. I guess we shook hands, but I couldn’t say for sure. All I really knew was I somehow got out of there without harming anyone. And I don’t think even God could’ve figured that one out.

Leaving the building, I was staggering, a red haze blinding me. Even with my eyes wide open I couldn’t see anything more than shadows. I guess nature works in miraculous ways, because if I could have seen any of those smug goddamned self-important faces, I would have turned them right back into the crap they really were. So I reeled down the street like a stinking drunk, bumping into people along the way, and lucky for all concerned no one made as much as a peep because that would have been all I needed. And in the long run that wouldn’t have done me any good.

I don’t know how I ended up where I did, but whatever self-preservation instinct had blinded and deafened me also delivered me right to that bar.

Of course, there was no truth to those letters. Eddie Braggs had sense enough to know it, and he could’ve asked each of my clients and they’d tell him that. Still, it was another burden to bear. If those letters were sent out to enough people they’d hurt me some. Maybe more than some. And it wouldn’t matter whether there was a word of truth in them. I was going to have to look into it. Sooner or later, I’d find out who was sending them and why.

* * * * *

The pounding in my ears had died down and the haze was all but gone. A glimpse of myself from a mirror behind the bar showed a hard smile frozen onto my face. I tried correcting it and a woman sitting a few bar stools away started laughing. I asked her what was so damned funny.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “You must be having a real bad day. You’re spilling your drink all over yourself.”

I looked down at my hand and she was right. There was a shot glass in it and some of the whiskey was trickling out onto the front of my jacket.

“What’s the matter, your best friend just die or something?”

I gave her a quick look, a real quick one because there wasn’t really much to look at. Nothing except a small redhead who had let herself get bloated from alcohol.

“I just found out,” I remarked, “that I won’t qualify for this year’s Miss America contest. I guess you must have been told the same thing years ago.”

I was sorry as soon as I said it. I guess I was still too rattled to think straight, but that was no reason to be mean to her. She turned away from me, facing straight ahead with her eyes as blank as stones and a hurt look playing on her mouth. I apologized and bought her a drink.

She grudgingly accepted it. “Where have I seen you before?”

“Probably in the Examiner.”

“That’s it, must’ve been in the funny pages. You’re that talking dog who’s always getting dropped on his head. Arf arf.”

“I can’t go anywhere without being recognized by my fans. You got a trick for an old dog?”

“I know who you really are,” she said, slyly. “You’re Johnny Lane, the detective. You really think I’m that bad looking?”

“Not at all,” I lied. “I was too wrapped up in some stuff to see straight. I should be struck dead for being so wrong.”

“Well, in that case,” she said as she moved next to me. She held out her hand and introduced herself as Margo Halloran.

I took her hand and it felt small and warm in mine. Holding it started giving me ideas.

“I was really named Marge,” she continued, showing an easy smile. “But Margo sounds so much more exotic, don’t you think?”

“Doesn’t even begin to do you justice.”

She scrunched up her face and gave me a hard look, trying to decide if I was being insincere. I wasn’t, though. Not at all. I wasn’t trying to make up for before, either. Maybe it was the way she had held onto my hand a good deal longer than was decent. Or maybe after the day I had suffered I didn’t see how I could make it alone. Or maybe a vein had popped in my brain, leaving me witless. Whatever the reason, I wasn’t about to let her looks interfere with me.

She made up her mind that I was just being sweet and her face melted back into an easy relaxed look. “So,” she said. “You find me sexy and desirable?”

“Now, darling, how in the world could I possibly not?”

“That was a pretty nasty crack you made before,” she said, her mouth hardening a little with spite. “What makes you think I like the way you look?”

“How in the world could you possibly not?”

She laughed. She didn’t want to, but couldn’t help herself. From below the bar, I reached over and started rubbing her leg. She froze for a moment and then her leg relaxed, and she put her hand on top of mine.

“Well in that case,” she said, trying pretty badly to look shy, “you can buy me another drink.”

I did just that. Actually it ended up being quite a few drinks. And it didn’t take much convincing on my part to get her to leave with me. Nothing more, really, than raising an eyebrow.

I got my car and drove both of us back to my place. We didn’t say much during the ride, and I don’t think we said a word on getting there. We went straight to the bedroom and silently took our clothes off. And then we went at it. Half way through she fell asleep on me.

I didn’t really appreciate that, but I didn’t let it stop me. When I finished I rolled off and looked down at her; oblivious to the world, with her mouth wide open and snoring like a sick dog. I couldn’t help feeling insulted. What I wanted to do was dump her out into the street in all her glory and let the rest of Colorado take a crack at her. But what I did was put my foot against her side and push until she toppled off the bed. I closed my eyes and eventually felt myself sliding into something cold.

I woke the next morning feeling groggy and stiff. After a while I realized the low moan I was hearing wasn’t coming from me but from the floor on the other side of the bed. I remembered Margo. There was nothing else to do but wake her and get her on her way, so I leaned over and started shaking her. She opened her eyes and slowly sat up, rubbing her neck and grimacing.

She asked how she ended up on the floor.

I shrugged. “You must have tossed yourself over while you were sleeping.”

“How did that happen? You have me bouncing off the walls or something?”

“Yeah, you could say that.”

She made a face as if she were going to sneeze, and instead groaned. “Next time, be a little easier on me. I don’t think my neck could take that again.”

She stood up, all stiff-legged and awkward, and collapsed backwards onto the bed. Rubbing her head with both hands she said, “It looks like it’s too late to be bashful. How was I?”

“Like a doll.”

She turned and gave me a puzzled look, but didn’t say anything. Maybe she picked up the sarcasm in my voice, but decided I was just talking goofy. Anyways, she collapsed back onto the bed and started with the moaning again.

Right then I got my first really clear look at her. The haze and the booze must have screwed up my vision before because I was all wrong about her. There was a lot to look at. Maybe the light in the bar wasn’t flattering for her, or maybe she needed to dry out some from the alcohol, or maybe I was just too damned mad to see straight. Whatever it was, lying there looking at her stretched out on my bed, I could see she was certainly something.

Her waist was thin enough to wrap my hands around, and brother, I would’ve needed more than that to get around her hips and chest. Don’t get me wrong—I’m not saying they didn’t look good on her. They looked damn good.

It was funny, but the night before I would’ve sworn her face looked like a ball of putty, bloated and blotched. Well, I was wrong about that too. In the bright sunlight her face was maybe a little pale, but still as pretty as they come. A person couldn’t have been more wrong about anything.

I started feeling a dryness in my mouth and an itching someplace else. I rolled over onto my side and started massaging her. All at once her body got stiff and tight, and she started with the excuses. Her head hurt too much, she was feeling sick, her hangover was killing her—you know the rest of them. She didn’t move away, though, and I didn’t let her excuses stop me. I kept it right up, hoping she’d give it to me before I had to take it from her. Sure enough, her body relaxed, and she melted into me.

After we finished, we lay there with her all over me, whispering all sorts of crap into my ear. What else could I do but pretend to like it? If she knew what I was thinking, I don’t suppose she would have been whispering that stuff to me. Maybe some of the words, but not in the same context.

She started playing with my hair, and well, my poppa taught me to be understanding with gals so all I could do was grit my teeth. I told her I had clients waiting at my office, and asked if it wasn’t about time for her to be heading home.

“Oh,” she said, pouting. “I thought you were beginning to like me.” And she stopped playing with my hair, and started playing with something else. Well, what else could I do? As much of a chore as it was, we went at it again.

When we finished, she gave me that nice easy smile of hers. “Mmm,” she said. “That wasn’t so bad, was it? Why don’t you go get me a nice big drink? Surprise me.”

I got up and made her one, and made myself a bigger one. When I got back, she was bent over my phone with her backside facing the door. As she heard me, she turned her head and informed me she was writing down my phone number and giving me hers, just so we wouldn’t accidentally forget later. I wanted to go over and give her ass a nice accidental on-purpose kick, but as strong as the temptation was, I resisted it. On walking back to the bed, I did manage to give her a friendly slap. Judging from the way she jumped, I guess it was questionable as to how friendly it was.

I gave her a drink, and she sat back down on the bed sipping it slowly. She rubbed her ass a little gingerly, but decided to give me the benefit of the doubt. She asked if I’d like to spend the day with her.

“Now, honey, you know I would.”

“Why don’t we, then?”

“I already told you, I’ve got people waiting for me.”

“You’re no fun.” She pouted. I swear she fluttered her eyelids at me as she went on, “I’ve had a crush on you for the longest time. I might be your biggest fan. Now that I’ve got you, I’m not about to let go.”

“Is that a fact?”

“It sure is!” Her eyes blazed for a second. Then she caught herself and turned the cute stuff back on. She wiggled her ass closer to me until she was just about sitting on my lap. Then, playing with her fingers along my chest, she asked, “Why do you have to be so difficult? Haven’t I been nice to you?”

It went on and on, and well, it was all pretty cute. All the blushing and eye fluttering and whispering. After a while I had enough. It took quite a bit of coaxing on my part to get her panties back on, and even more to get her out the door and into a cab. The whole thing tired me out. By the time she left, the only thing I wanted to do was crawl back into bed. And it was tempting. But with all the folks in this world that counted on me, it didn’t seem as if I could do anything else but drag myself off to work.

Chapter 9

What I had told Marge about having people waiting for me was the truth, and it was almost eleven before I got in, giving my nine o’clock and ten o’clock appointments plenty of time to stew. As soon as they saw me arrive, they tore into me. Nine O’Clock complained that I had a hell of a lot of nerve, and Ten O’Clock agreed, insisting that the least I could do was give them both discounts.

It really was a lousy way to treat folks who might hire you, and I felt bad about it. I tried my best to calm them down, joking that they should pretend they’d been waiting to see a doctor. At least that way they could think of me as being early.

Nine O’Clock interrupted me. “I don’t see anything funny about being inconsiderate.”

“No,” I tried explaining. “I don’t think it’s fun—”

“You’ve got a lot to learn about manners,” Ten O’Clock piped in.

“Well,” I said. “I’m sorry—” I heard the door to my anteroom open and turned to see my eleven o’clock appointment, Tom Morton, walking in.

“Excuse me,” I muttered under my breath, and I greeted Morton at the door and showed him to my office.

That set off the fireworks. “I’ve been waiting two hours!” Nine O’Clock exploded, his face lit up with fury. “I demand you see me first!”

“If you’d just be patient,” I said, “I’ll be right with you. This is an emergency—”

“Go to hell!” He turned away from me. At the door, he warned me that the Better Business Bureau was going to hear about me. Then he damn near broke the glass in the door slamming it.

Ten O’Clock was mulling things over, but I guess she just had a longer fuse. “I’m going to talk to my congressman about you,” she said as she got up to leave. “People with your attitude shouldn’t be allowed to do business!”

It doesn’t do to have folks upset with you, but I couldn’t afford to keep Morton waiting. Morton was the attorney for Joel Ekleberg, and was looking for someone to carry out some investigative work for his client. I wanted the case and I wasn’t about to risk it for a couple of nickel and dime jobs.

For those of you who have been out of town or in a coma for the last six weeks, Joel Ekleberg is an investment banker currently being held for the strangulation murders of his wife and a female friend. What has made this such a whiz-bang deal in the papers is the gossip linking the late Mrs. Ekleberg to several state politicians. No matter how it resolves itself, it looks like quite a story, one the Examiner would be thankful to get.

I joined Morton in the office. Morton’s a square-jawed, smug little bastard. His old man bought him a law partnership when he was thirty-five and that only made him all the more smug. He asked what the commotion was about.

“Just giving some folks a lesson on American business.”

“Yeah, what’s that?”

“The little guy gets screwed every time.”

He smirked at that, then took out a cigar, bit off the end and clamped it in his mouth. “If I hire you, you’re going to write this case up for your paper, right?” he asked, lighting the cigar with a solid gold lighter the shape of a Ferrari.

“I’m planning to.”

“You’ve got yourself a job, then.”

For the next ten minutes he gave me a rundown of the facts and a list of what he wanted me to do. When he was done, I asked him what he thought.

“About what?”

“Did your client do it?”

“I dunno, maybe.” He scowled. “How the hell am I supposed to know? Just make sure you get my name spelled right. And work my phone number in, okay?”

We shook hands, and he reminded me again about getting his name spelled right. I made a mental note to forget the ‘t’ from his last name. Somehow it seemed more appropriate.

I would have liked to have handled the Ekleberg case myself, but with all the problems dragging on me, that just didn’t seem possible. I made a few phone calls, found that Jimmy Tobbler was available, and hired him to handle it.

With having skipped breakfast, my stomach was feeling as dried out as a prune pit. I was about to head out for some lunch when the phone rang.

It was Mary, but it also wasn’t, if you get me. At least, it wasn’t the little gal who had idolized me before. She was all business, and talked to me as if we had never laid eyes on each other. She not only wanted to know my progress, but also wanted a written report on everything I had done and everything I was planning to do. My heart dropped when she asked for that. She had lost faith in me quicker than anyone could have reasonably expected.

At this point, it would seem if I had any sense, I’d tell Mary about Rose, right? Well, there was only one small problem. And it wasn’t the way it would hit Rose. I mean, she was an adult and if she couldn’t accept the consequences of her actions that was just too bad. And Mary? I guess it would be a shame for her to feel badly towards me. I wouldn’t like it, but that still wouldn’t be any reason to be tripping all over myself. At least not if that was all there was to it. And of course it wasn’t.

* * * * *

Walt Murphy should’ve died the way I already explained. It should’ve happened that way because that’s how everyone believes it happened— my loyal readers, the police, the newspapers. Everyone, except maybe Rose. That version also makes a hell of a lot more sense than what really happened.

It’s kind of funny, but I still don’t understand why I did what I did. At least not entirely. Then again, I don’t spend much time thinking about it. It doesn’t do me any good and it’s much better for me to think about it the other way.

But the real way—Jesus! With that crazy bastard telling me how he knows his wife is cheating on him. And me sitting there wanting to puke my stomach out. I mean, the guy knows his wife is playing around and he doesn’t care. The son of a bitch just wants to make her stop. Thinking if I take pictures of her in the act he can use them to make her stop.

Listening to him was just so damn funny, so damn sad. I wanted to laugh, to reach out and strike his stupid idiotic face. I tried not to do anything. I tried to sit there and smile and nod my head. But I couldn’t. Before I knew it, the sickness was taking me over, suffocating me in a red haze of fury. When the sickness does that, there’s really nothing to do but let it happen. I took my gun from the desk drawer and pointed it at him and waited and . . . .

He did grab the gun away from me. That part was true; we fought over the gun. He was smaller than me and soft-looking and it didn’t look like I would have much trouble getting my gun back from him. I guess I knew a struggle wasn’t going to help him much, but it was sure going to help me.

Who would have believed me if there wasn’t any evidence of a struggle? And the bruises he gave me really didn’t matter for anything except they helped convince the cops that the way I explained it was the way it had to have been, as crazy as it sounded, because nothing else made a damn bit of sense.

At first the cops didn’t want to believe me. They kept asking questions, the same ones again and again. The one they were stuck on was why the coroner said that over an hour elapsed between the stomach and head wounds.

It was a pretty good question. If the shots were fired while we were fighting over the gun both wounds would’ve happened at about the same time. There wasn’t much I could say except that a mistake must have been made.

They didn’t like my answer. They’d probably still be grilling me if the coroner hadn’t admitted that there was a chance he was wrong. When there was this much blood, it can be difficult to narrow down exact times, he conceded. Murphy’s death could’ve happened the way I explained it.

Real smart guy, but he should have stuck with his gut feelings. He was right, a hundred percent right. Although I don’t think that much time could have elapsed, no more than half an hour. At least I don’t think so.

What I do know is when I shot him in the belly and he collapsed on the floor and started begging me for help, well it was all just so funny, so sad, so goddamn pointless that it made me start thinking of other things. I forgot he was there. That probably sounds nuts, a guy bleeding to death because I gutted him and then me forgetting all about him. But that’s what happened.

I remember sitting at my desk, pouring a couple of drinks (no more than a third of a bottle), and trying to clear my head. All the time with the poor bastard right there, blubbering for help. God knows what he must have thought of me.

When I did notice him it shocked me. I can blame my gray hair on that. How was I going to explain this? And then I realized how the shooting had to turn out. The way it was going to become, for if he was dead, why wouldn’t it be that way?

I got up and blew the top of his head off.

I was lucky. No one heard the first shot, the one to the belly. Otherwise the police would have been called long before I called them, and well, you know how all this turned out.

So you see why I couldn’t afford to let Mary meet with Rose. She might just end up guessing the truth and I couldn’t take that chance. Even if it was only a one in a thousand chance, how could I risk it?

Anyway, I couldn’t shake the feeling that Mary would figure out what happened. Maybe she would have her doubts at first, but as soon as she saw me, she would know the truth. She’d see right into me. It somehow didn’t seem right to have to live dreading a thing like that. I just didn’t see how I could.

* * * * *

I sat back and gave the matter some thought. When I was through thinking, I called Jerry Bry and told him where to meet me.

Chapter 10

Jerry Bry was a real sweetheart of a guy, the type who’d give you a nickel for a dollar any day of the week. That’s what I liked about him— the size of his heart, which was a shade smaller than an ice cube.

Over the years I have had quite a few dealings with Bry. Well, to be more specific, I have always been hired by his wife, but Bry and I somehow always ended up doing business.

* * * * *

He was waiting at a back table in Goldie’s Bar. It had been almost two years since I’d seen him last and from what I could tell, he hadn’t changed much. Maybe a little grayer around the eyes and maybe his hairline had receded another inch. And he still had that soft whining look that always made me want to erase it with my fists.

I gave him a nod. He acknowledged me with a dull stare before dropping his eyes to the beer he was nursing. I sat across from him.

Keeping his eyes on his drink, he muttered, “I have to hand it to her, Joyce had me fooled this time. I had no idea she suspected anything.”

“Is that so?”

“Yeah, that’s so. Just hand them over to me, okay?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He shook his head slowly. “A real clown. Just hand me your goddamned pictures and let me pay you and get the hell out of here. Your stench is beginning to get to me.”

“I hate to disappoint you,” I said, “but I don’t have any pictures.”

He gave me a blank stare for a moment before his face sagged into an expression of bewilderment. “What the hell are you trying to pull?”

His mouth had dropped open, and he fell back into his chair. Looking at him, with his eyes just about popping out of his head, I couldn’t keep from grinning.

“What the fuck do you want?”

“Just a favor,” I said.

“You can take your favor and shove it!” He started to get out of his chair, and as he did so I leaned forward and shoved him hard back into it. He went down hard enough for the force to drive the chair’s front legs off the ground, leaving him frantically flapping his arms to keep from toppling backwards. Just like Humpty Dumpty, except Bry avoided the great fall. He got his balance back and forced the chair forward.

For a good ten-count he couldn’t speak. He was breathing hard, his face purpling with rage. It was funny how he felt he could treat me with contempt. Maybe he thought it was just business, that it was something he paid for. And maybe I did always laugh it off, but that didn’t mean I wasn’t keeping score.

Finally he caught his breath and clamped down hard enough on his teeth that I thought they were going to break. “I’d give anything to get you alone for five minutes.”

“No reason we couldn’t step out back,” I said, trying to be agreeable.

I wished he’d take me up on it, but I knew he wouldn’t. He was a big man, probably outweighed me by fifty pounds—and I weigh a solid one hundred and ninety. When he was younger he was a hotshot for his college football team and probably still thought he was something. But even at his peak, I would have taken him apart. The way he was now, the time it took him to hit the pavement would have been all I needed.

He didn’t say anything. We both sat and stared at each other. “Is this any way to act after all I’ve done for you?” I asked after a while.

“All you’ve done for me?” His laugh caught in his sinuses and came out more as a snort.

“That’s right.” I nodded. “Kept your marriage together best I could and—”

“Yeah? I always thought you were just blackmailing me like the cheap punk you are.”

“That’s where you’re showing your ignorance,” I said. “Whenever Joyce hires me and I catch you banging away without her, deciding what to do with the pictures is always a struggle. If I thought she’d use them to divorce you, I’d give them to her gladly. But I don’t suppose that’s what she’d do.”

I waited for him to say something, but he just breathed hard and ground his teeth.

“If Joyce were to see them,” I continued, “there’s no doubt in my mind she’d kill you first chance she got.”

Whenever his wife had hired me, she would act casual about it. But it was a poor act. The skin around her mouth would be pulled so tight you’d think it was going to rip. And when she laughed, it was edged with a shrill hysteria. Kind of like nails on a blackboard. I never took her jokes about how she would cut his balls off and use them as a car ornament if he really cheated on her as anything but what she truly intended.

“Now I’m not saying this world wouldn’t be a better place without you,” I said. “Probably would be, but it just doesn’t seem fair if your wife ended up going to jail for a thing like that.”

“So that’s how you justify blackmailing me,” he said.

I looked at him sadly. He still didn’t get it. I was only trying to do what was best for my client. If I thought showing him the pictures would make him stop, I’d never have asked for money. But he wouldn’t have stopped. And what his wife was paying for, deep inside, was to make him stop.

“Now,” I said, trying to make him understand. And what the hell was so hard to understand? “That’s not how I see it. I’m just trying to teach you a lesson. Get you back on the straight and narrow. But it seems I’ve been failing you, cause no matter how hard I try you keep straying. Maybe if it hurt a little more, you’d straighten out.”

“You son of a bitch. If only this city knew that the great Johnny Lane was nothing more than a cheap blackmailing punk.”

I ignored him. “To be honest,” I said, “I never understood why your wife cares a damn about you. With that cute little figure she’s got and with all that emotion she puts out in the sack, she should be able to get herself something that stands on two legs. At least something with brains enough not to risk losing a gal who can moan the way she can.”

Of course, I was lying. Not about her having a nice figure, because she certainly had that. The one time Joyce and I ended up horizontally, she was deader than a stick of wood. I think she gave me a splinter. I could understand why he was always sniffing around. But then again, he was probably the one who had made her that way.

He was livid. For a second I thought he was going to lunge at me and maybe that was what I was after. Usually, I didn’t twist the knife that deep into him, but this time I was getting my hands all bloody. Maybe I was after some payback, which was crazy, since I needed him now and would have all the time in the world for that later.

Luke, who was working the bar, sauntered over, carrying a beer bottle. He asked if everything was okay.

“Couldn’t be better,” I told him. “Want you to meet an old friend of mine. We go back almost fifteen years. Luke, Jerry Bry.”

Bry didn’t say anything. Luke nodded and told him he was glad to meet him. “If you need anything, Johnny,” he said, giving Bry a long stare, “just give a yell. Here’s something on the house.” He handed me the beer. As he walked back to the bar, he turned and gave Bry another look.

Under his breath, Bry asked, “How many other people have you been blackmailing?”

I studied him hard, wondering if he was the one sending the anonymous letters. I decided it wasn’t him. He couldn’t risk Joyce finding out about his cheating. I said, “If you don’t like the way I’ve been handling things, we can go right now and have a talk with your wife. Would you like to do that?”

“Fuck you.”

“I asked you a question.”

“You damn well know the answer.”

“Okay, then,” I said. “I need a favor and I know you wouldn’t mind helping me out. At least not after all I’ve done for you over the years. Right?”

He clamped his jaw shut, but his head bobbed up and down.

“I need you to pretend to be a little gal’s daddy.”

“Wha—” he spat out, almost choking.

“I have a college gal who’s searching for her father. You’re going to tell her that you’re him.”

“And what am I supposed to say to Joyce?” he asked.

I explained what I needed him to do. He would meet with Mary and tell her if his wife ever found out he had a daughter it would destroy his marriage. He would feel bad about not being able to see her again, but it would have to be that way. Mary would understand, and that would be it.

It seemed simple enough. Everything was going to work out. Mary would have her faith restored in me, and, just as important, she would never have any reason to meet up with Rose. I could breathe easy again.

Comprehension was beginning to work its way into Bry’s face. His lips turned up into an ugly smile, and he snickered. “You really are a lowlife, aren’t you?”

I don’t think I ever wanted to rip him apart any more than I did right then. It was pretty clear what was going on behind his dull stupid smile. The way he was looking at it, I was giving him a knife he could hold against my throat. Anytime in the future he could threaten to go talk to Mary. Well, whether he wanted to believe me or not, I always did what was in the best interest of his marriage. Now, as far as I was concerned, he was a lost cause. He was no better than a rutting pig, and nothing I could do would change that.

Somehow the thought of him trying to blackmail me didn’t bother me. It wasn’t anything I could put my finger on, sort of something tickling the back of my mind, but I knew when the time was right I would know how to take care of things.

Understanding that gave me a warm feeling.

“If I got any lower,” I said, “the two of us could shake hands.”

Chapter 11

The next two days were rough ones. I couldn’t just go and tell Mary I’d found her daddy. Coming right after her ultimatum, she was bound to be suspicious. I had to drop a few hints first. Every time she called—and she wasn’t shy about it—I let on that something new had broken.

Even though I knew everything was going to work itself out, I couldn’t help feeling as if I were walking around on eggshells. But I guess it was normal to be anxious. I couldn’t help worrying Bry would screw up, and none of us could afford that.

* * * * *

After my meeting with Bry, I went back to the office and tried getting some work done. After a while I gave up. As I was getting ready to leave, Eddie Braggs called.

“Tell me it’s true,” he said.

“Tell you what’s true?”

“That you were hired by Ekleberg’s lawyer.”

“You heard about that, huh?”

“It is true, then? Damn, that’s good news. You got anything yet?”

“No, not yet, but I should have something for next month’s column.”

“This is good, Johnny, real good. I knew I could count on you for another big story. And don’t worry about this month’s ‘Fast Lane’. It’s already been taken care of.”

“How’s that?”

“You can read it Sunday like everyone else. When are you going to get yourself on the radio and help me sell a few papers?”

I told him it was under control and hung up. Morton must’ve called Braggs. I could tell from his tone that he already knew I had the Ekleberg case, but I guess he wanted to make sure I was going to use it for my column. Knowing that Braggs was on my side again should have helped my state of mind, but it didn’t. For a long moment I thought about Bry and Mary and what was going to happen next. After a few shots of rye, I called the general manager of a local radio station. We talked a little, and arranged an hour spot on one of his talk shows. He wanted me on air that afternoon, but I was feeling too jumpy to agree. We settled for Thursday afternoon and he promised he’d run promos for it.

I tried again to get some work done. I took out my business receipts and tried balancing the books, but I couldn’t concentrate enough to play with the numbers. I put the receipts down and picked up some outstanding case reports. After a while it was like I was staring into thin air.

The phone started ringing. I reached for it, stopped myself, got up and walked out the door.

Outside it was as if the world had been slightly twisted out of its norm. As if folks passing by were, well, were able to look inside me. I knew the problem was I was strung out from worry. I knew they weren’t really staring at me. I knew they weren’t whispering those things about me. But, I’ll tell you, it sure seemed as if they were.

I stopped at a used bookstore. An uncomfortable feeling had been working its way from my stomach to my chest and I needed to give it a chance to pass. As I was thumbing through a stack of paperbacks I found one from an author I liked. On the inside cover, scribbled in pen, was the inscription:

Dear Mark, I hope you enjoy this book—good, late night reading to scare the pants off ya!! Happy Birthday! Lots of love, Tricia

There were a bunch of hearts drawn around the inscription, and, well, I just started laughing. I don’t know why, because it wasn’t funny, at least, not exactly. But it sure was something. All that hope and expectation traded away for half a buck at a used bookstore. As good as that writer was, nothing in any of his stories could have been more tragic.

I took some loose change from my pocket and bought the book.

Chapter 12

That night Marge called me. I told her I had a toothache and hung up on her. About an hour later the doorbell rang, and there she was.

“Look,” I growled at her. “I told you—”

“Shuddup,” she snapped, and she slipped under my arm and squeezed past me. In the middle of the room she undid the belt of her overcoat, letting it slip off. As it slid to the floor, I realized that was all she was wearing, unless you wanted to count her cowboy boots.

Her glistening eyes challenged me to say something. Then she stuck her tongue out at me and marched into the bedroom.

When we were finished, she climbed on top of me and asked which tooth was bothering me. I pointed to a corner of my mouth, and she reached down and gave me a hard peck where I pointed.

She beamed. “There. I kissed it and made it better.”

Even though we both knew I didn’t have a toothache it was still a dirty trick. I had to carry on as if I was in agony. I said, “I should put you on my knee and paddle your ass off.”

I wanted to do more than that. As she looked at me, her eyes widened in an exaggerated display of terror. She said, “Oh, you look like you want to kill your poor little Margo.” Then she giggled and moved down a little. “I bet you wouldn’t want to do that if I kissed you over here.” And then she moved down a little more. “Or here.” And after a while she was right.

When she was done, she propped herself up on her elbow and asked for a drink. I brought her the whole bottle. By the time she passed out, it was half empty. I took the bottle with me and went back downstairs. I knew I had no chance of getting her to go home but that didn’t mean I had to stay with her. I settled down on the sofa with the bottle and a glass in front of me. I had too much nervous energy to sleep, and neither the booze nor my tumble with Marge had helped any. I poured myself drinks until the bottle was empty. Then I found another bottle.

* * * * *

The next day started off bad and only got worse. It wasn’t that anything really terrible happened, it was just the way I was feeling.

Marge woke me early that morning and yelled at me for falling asleep downstairs. I was feeling too low to argue with her so I just sat there and took it. After a while she calmed down and tried pouring on the sweet stuff again. That was worse than the bawling out she gave me (as I said, things only got worse). Well, eventually she pulled herself together and headed home, but not without first putting me through the wringer.

Right before she left, she reached over and planted a big kiss on me. “There,” she said, pulling away, her eyes sparkling. “I’ve put my mark on you. You’re mine forever. And lover, you better not forget it.”

After she’d gone, I looked in the mirror and saw that the kiss had left a red blotch of lipstick on my forehead. I washed it off.

Not much else happened that day. Other than the fact my stomach was doing somersaults and my nerves were screaming bloody murder, the only thing worth writing about was that I talked with Mary a few times, hinting to her that I was close to a discovery. After the last call I went out shopping. When I returned home, I brought a couple of bottles of booze to the sofa and waited for the darkness.

Chapter 13

Everything seemed to happen on Thursday. I came within a whisker of killing Max Roth. Mary found out about Jerry Bry. I discovered who had been sending those anonymous letters. Mary and I—let me start from the beginning.

* * * * *

When I woke up Thursday, my head felt as if it was going to split in two. For a few moments I didn’t know who or where I was. But for the first time in days, even with the headache, I felt at peace. Slowly, memories started seeping in, though. Before long, I remembered all of it.

I knew I couldn’t continue the way I was going. I couldn’t go on the radio under the weight of all that worry. I called Mary and told her I had good news. We arranged to meet at my office in an hour.

When I got there, Mary was already waiting. She jumped up and fired a dozen questions at me.

I held out my hands. “Whoa. Take a seat and I’ll tell you everything.” We sat down. Or at least I did. Mary’s rear barely touched her chair. “I’m so nervous,” she said. “I want to know everything.”

“I know, Mary.” I smiled, or at least tried to. My head felt like an overripe melon, and a pain shot through it, jerking the smile right off my face.

“You really found my parents?”

I nodded. “Your mother died two months after you were born. That’s what made it so hard to find your records. You weren’t adopted as a newborn baby. Your daddy’s alive, though. Living right here in Denver.”

For a moment I thought she was going to break down, but she got a stiff upper lip and choked back the tears. “I always thought my mother was alive,” she said. “It’s hard to believe she isn’t.”

“I’m sorry.”

She swallowed back whatever emotion was fighting its way loose and asked me to tell her about her father.

I told her about Jerry Bry. I told her he had a wife now who didn’t know about this. “He knows you want to contact him, but he’s afraid his wife will divorce him if she finds out about you.” I handed her one of his business cards. “He’d like you to call him at his office.”

She bit her lip. “How did you find him?”

“Well—” I said, and spun her quite a yarn. By the time I finished, I believed it myself. She sat there quietly, soaking it all in. All of a sudden, she reached over and kissed me on the cheek.

She looked at me for a few seconds, frowning slightly. “Johnny, you look terrible. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. I’ve been working hard on this the last few days. Haven’t slept much.”

“Oh.” Concern was deepening her frown. She kissed me again. “Can I see you after I talk with my father?”

“Sure. Anytime.”

As she was leaving, she stopped at the door. “Are you going to be alright?”

“Don’t worry about me, honey. A little sleep and I’ll be as good as new.”

“Well, then—” She ran over to me and gave me a third kiss. This one on the mouth. “’Bye Johnny. Thank you for everything.”

I sat back, feeling better about things, although I still had to worry about Bry lousing things up. I swore to myself I’d break his neck if he did.

* * * * *

Later that morning Debra Singer called. She wanted to let me know that things were getting better with her. She was eating properly, and even claimed she was getting a little chubby. She was having trouble sleeping but thanks to the money I gave her she was seeing a therapist. She hadn’t seen her father and was debating whether or not to file charges against him. I got the idea her mother was making things difficult for her. I told her when my schedule wasn’t so crazy I’d take her to lunch.

I spent the rest of the morning making phone calls and updating some of the outstanding case reports lying on my desk. By the time I headed out for lunch, I was feeling pretty good, and hungry enough to make up for the last few days. I went full out: steak, baked potato, half a basket of garlic bread, a couple of beers, and two pieces of peach cobbler. The despair and distress I’d been feeling had become nothing more than a bad memory. After Mary met with Bry, it would all be over.

At two thirty I left for the radio station. The station was only a ten-minute walk from my office, and on the way a few people stopped me to ask for my autograph. By the time I got to the station the last few days weren’t even a bad memory.

I’d worked with the talk show host, Alan Glick, the last time I’d done a radio show. When he saw me, he waved and signaled for me to wait for the next commercial.

“Johnny Lane,” he exclaimed after taking his headset off. “I’ve got to get you up here more often. A year’s just too long. After this commercial I’ll introduce you. I figure we’ll have you tell stories for the first half hour and then open up the line for calls. Sound good to you?”

“Sure, sounds fine.”

“Great. Commercial’s almost over. Put that headset on and get ready.”

He slipped his own headset back on. “Welcome back to KDCK, Denver’s own talk radio. I have a special treat for you this afternoon. Denver’s own tough guy, private eye Johnny Lane, is here in the studio with me. Glad to have you, Johnny.”

“Glad to be here,” I said. And I meant it. It’s funny how relaxed I always feel when I’m making a radio or television appearance. Never bothers me at all. I guess I was born for the spotlight.

Most of it went as well as I could have hoped for. I told stories I thought I’d forgotten over the years. When we got to taking phone calls, folks were more interested in telling me how much they enjoyed my stories than in asking questions. Near the end, someone asked something so quietly I couldn’t hear.

“Excuse me,” I said. “I don’t think I caught that.”

In a voice that wasn’t much louder but that echoed right through me, a woman asked, “Why don’t you tell us how you blackmail your clients?”

Glick flipped a switch and cut the caller off. “Come on boys and girls,” he admonished, “it’s a little too early in the afternoon to be hitting the hard stuff. They’re out there, Johnny. Let’s hear a word from the big guy paying our bills and then we’ll be right back with more of Johnny Lane.”

He cut off his mike and shook me. “If that vein in your neck pushes out any further, you’re going to have a stroke.”

I mumbled something.

“Hey, don’t worry about it, man,” he said. “It’s just a crank call. This is radio, you know. You okay to take another call?”

When I could, I nodded.

He waited for the commercial to end. “We have time for one more phone call. And this time, please, no nuts. Yes ma’am, you’re on the air.”

“Since you wouldn’t answer my last question,” the same voice quietly ripped into me, “would you mind telling us how you killed Walter Murphy?”

“That’s it,” Glick interrupted. “Sorry about that Johnny, but they’re out there, alright. We’ll be back after the news with more talk, but if you’re a nut please save your dime.”

He cut his mike off again and gave me a tap on the shoulder. “Great show, Johnny. And it’s great to see you got your sense of humor back. You can’t let those nuts out there upset you.”

I was smiling, but he misunderstood the reason behind it. During the second call I recognized the woman’s voice. And there wasn’t a chance in hell I could’ve kept that smile off my face.

Chapter 14

I waited until dark before looking for Max Roth. From what I’d heard Max had gotten into the habit of spending his nights drinking his money away. I started out searching the bars on Denver’s south end and after two hours I found Max’s car parked alongside a little hole in the wall bar. I walked around the outside, checking out the layout. The parking lot was behind the building and away from traffic. For the hell of it, I measured the distance from the side door to the front of the building.

I was disappointed there was a full moon, but it would probably still be dark enough for what I was planning. I went through it forwards and backwards. I even play-acted it out and couldn’t see any problems. Apart from the full moon, the setup was as good as I could have hoped for.

I headed back to the bar’s entrance and stopped in the shadows of its doorway. I looked in and saw Max hunched over the bar with his back to me. I made my way to a table in the rear, making sure he didn’t see me. By now the booze and self-pity would be working on him, dulling his senses and leaving him with nothing but contempt.

I asked the gal working the tables to bring me a beer. I didn’t have to worry about Max spotting me. He wasn’t about to notice anything except the booze and all the crap he’d convinced himself life was dumping on him. He wasn’t going to see me until I wanted him to and by then it would be too late.

He kept me waiting quite a bit, taking extra care to treat each drink with kindness. Being gentler with the alcohol than he ever was with his own wife or kids. Almost two hours later, Max had his wallet out and was looking at it with dejected bewilderment. That meant it was empty and he couldn’t face up to the fact that the booze was going to be cut off.

He tried kidding the barkeep for one last drink but the barkeep turned a deaf ear. Max stood there, uncomprehending, before resigning himself to the cruelty of the situation, and, shoulders slouched, turned towards the door.

I headed for the men’s room. On the way I made a sharp turn out the side door. I took a deep breath and waited, holding myself close to the outside of the building. As Max walked past me, I moved out and pushed my foot hard against the back of his leg, hitting the area just below the knee. He sort of crumpled backwards, and I dug my forearm into his neck and threw myself forward, letting gravity do the rest. We ended up falling into a heap, me crisscrossed on top of him and his head wedged between the dirt ground and my elbow.

Spitting out dirt, he mumbled, “You picked the wrong guy. I’m flat broke.”

I forced one of his eyes open with my thumb and waited until it focused. “It’s me, Max,” I said. “I’ve been wanting to have a talk with you.”

He didn’t say anything for a minute, a little too dazed to realize what was happening. When he finally recognized me he demanded to know what the hell I was doing. Then he ordered me to get off him.

“Not until I kick your teeth in.”

“What for? What did I ever do to you?”

“Why don’t you talk to your wife about it? I was on the radio this afternoon and she tried to make trouble for me. Talked a whole lot of garbage about me blackmailing my clients.”

“Well, it’s true!”

I put more pressure to his head with my forearm and he squeezed his eyes shut. “I have to disagree with you on that. I think she should keep her ugly mouth shut.”

“Why are you telling me? Talk to her yourself. For all the good it’ll do you. She’s pissed at the way you’ve been treating me.”

“Get it through your thick skull that ff she hurts me she’s going to hurt you just as bad. Or worse. You’ll be the first one to get cut off.”

“You’ve already done that. I spoke to Tommy and Jim. I know what’s going on.”

I started laughing. It was all I could do looking down at his big ugly face, all puckered up on the verge of bawling. Filled with self-righteousness and goddamned hopelessness.

He demanded to know what I was laughing at.

“You,” I said. “And that big cement block you call a head. Look, why don’t we have us a talk? Let me buy you a drink.”

I helped him up and brushed him off. For a second he looked as if he was going to take a swing at me. I gave him my handkerchief to clean up his face.

We turned back into the bar. The barkeep raised an eyebrow but didn’t say a word. Hell, Max did look a mess, blood and dirt smudged across his face. I bought a round of drinks and we drank them silently.

After a while we were both fidgeting in our chairs. I started things off. “I want to be fair to you,” I said. “But you have to be fair in return. I never wanted a partner. I like running my own operation.”

“You owe me,” Max said, talking more into his shot glass than to me.

“Well, let’s say I do, and I have to tell you I’m not entirely convinced of that. What do you suggest?”

His face convulsed as if he had swallowed something that needed to be spat out. “Just make me your goddamn partner,” he said.

I had to bite my tongue to keep from laughing. I was only playing for time. When we were out there in the dirt an idea had snuck up on me. I needed to give it a few minutes to gel. And it was forming nicely.

“I don’t think so,” I said. “There’s got to be something else we could do.”

“Why? You promised me.”

“Come on, that’s not getting us anywhere.”

“At least give me some of your clients. You owe me that much.”

“I don’t know if that would be such a good idea. People don’t like to be told where to go—but you know what we could do?

“How about this,” I continued, acting as if I had a genuine revelation. “We could work it so we were more like partners. I’ll give you a fifty-fifty split on all work you do for me.

“You know what else we could do?” I added, drawing it out. “I can have you deal directly with the clients. If they’re satisfied with your work, I’ll recommend they contact you for future jobs. And when you get enough clients on your own, we can call it quits.”

Max was rolling his shot glass around in his palms. He kept his eyes on the table but I swear tears were popping up around them. “I only wanted what’s fair. Thanks, Johnny. I’m sorry about everything that happened.”

He wiped his shirtsleeve across his face, and started apologizing and thanking me like there was no tomorrow. He was overreacting to the situation. Fifty percent of nothing is still nothing, and that was all I was going to give him. I’d throw him a few scraps here and there but nothing he could live on. Just enough to keep him guessing whether or not I was on the level. He’d probably suspect pretty soon what was really going on, but he wouldn’t know for sure. And that would be the hell of it, because if I was on the level then the scraps would keep him going until the steak came, but if I wasn’t, then I would just be slowly starving him. By the time he figured it out it would be too late. Him and Moira would be too tired and hungry to want to cause me any more trouble.

I would have liked to have given Max another chance. Deep down I believed that. But him and his wife were too much of a nuisance to keep around. I couldn’t afford to give Moira another opportunity to get pissed at me. For all I knew, next time she’d end up taking out a full-page ad to air her grievances.

I bought another round. “Max,” I said. “One thing. Could you talk to Moira? Straighten her out as to how things stand?”

“It’s as good as done, Johnny.”

From the look he gave me I could tell he was planning on doing more than just talking to her. If I was lucky, in the drunken state he was in, he’d end up breaking her neck.

I gave him a slap on the back, said, “I have had a hell of a day and I’m going to call it quits. Stop by the office at nine tomorrow and I’ll set you up with an assignment.”

Max nodded and told me I wouldn’t be disappointed in him. I didn’t think there was a chance of that either.

Chapter 15

I saw what I thought was a large dog lying on my front doorstep. My night vision’s pretty poor, always has been, and as I got closer I realized it was a person. A few yards from my door I realized it was Mary.

Her eyes were red and swollen but no more so than the rest of her face.

“Mary,” I said, feeling a sickness start up in my stomach, “what’s wrong?”

She looked beyond miserable. “Oh, Johnny—” she cried, as she got up and buried her face into my chest.

I took her inside and cleaned her face up. The crying eventually subsided. I made her some coffee, pouring a good shot of whiskey into it, and made her take a few sips.

“Can you tell me what happened?” I asked.

She nodded, and bit hard on her lip. “I went to see him tonight, and h-he—” she gasped. Then she got her control back and, with her eyes dulling a bit, said, “He tried to rape me.”

I looked at her incredulously. I knew it was a stupid question—it just kind of slipped from me, but I asked her what she meant.

She shook her head, confirming what she told me. “I called him this afternoon,” she said, “and we made plans to meet at his home tonight. His wife had gone to see friends so we were alone. He started hugging me, and then he asked how much I loved him. And then—”

“You don’t have to tell me any more.”

“No, I want to tell you.” She’d distanced herself from the event and was talking about it more matter-of-factly, as if it had happened to someone else.

“He put his hands on my breasts. When I pulled away from him he asked what was wrong with me, didn’t I want to show my father how much I loved him? He threw me to the floor and when he was trying to take my pants off I kneed him. Then I ran away and came here.”

“Oh, Mary.” I didn’t know what else to say. I wanted to break Bry apart. I wanted to turn him into the same queasy mush my stomach had become. I held my breath and let it out slowly. At least I could be thankful this whole business with Mary was coming to a close.

“All I wanted was to see who my real father was.”

“I know, honey.”

“I guess you were right.” She smiled sadly at me. “Finding my father didn’t do me any good. What next?”

“You’ll just have to forget it. You do have parents that love you.”

“I know, I know. Boy, look at me. Have you ever seen such a mess?” She let out a brittle laugh. “I was supposed to work tonight, but I don’t think I’m up to it.”

“Do you want me to take you home?”

“I don’t think I’m up to that either. Do you think I could stay here tonight?”

“Sure. I’ll make up the guest room for you.”

“Can we sit together for a few minutes? I-I don’t feel I can be alone right now.”

She moved over to the sofa with me, and we sat there together, neither us saying a word. She curled up into a ball, her head lying flat against my chest. After a while, she looked up at me, her eyes half closed but shining with expectation.

“I’d better get that room ready for you,” I said.

I put some fresh sheets on the bed and got her a robe and a pair of old pajamas. I noticed she was standing quietly watching me. As I headed for the door, she touched my arm and was about to say something. I put my finger against her lips. Then I left her alone.

As I was lying on my bed the door opened. Mary walked in, and as she did, her robe fell open. Framed by the hallway light she was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. But she was so young that I felt ashamed. I tried looking away.

“Mary—” I started to say.

She hushed me. In an instant she’d moved across the room. Her naked body was up against me. I could feel her shivering.

“Mary, this isn’t right,” I said, gently pushing her away.

“Yes it is.” She once again wrapped her limbs around me.

I felt myself weakening. I pushed her away again, this time being rougher. “Trust me, it isn’t. Please—”

She looked at me, puzzled, her brown eyes moistening with tears. Her body shook. “First my father tries to rape me, and now this. What’s wrong with me?”

“Nothing,” I said softly. I was holding her, smoothing her hair. “Nothing at all,” I whispered.

I whispered a lot of other stuff, trying my best to comfort her. Somehow we ended up with me lying on top of her. At first, I was just holding her. And it felt nice, nicer than anything I could remember. I wished it could go on like that forever.

Mary, though, was all eager and unashamed underneath me. She shifted her body around and worked some of my clothing loose, and it wasn’t long before we weren’t just holding each other. I tried not to think of what we were doing. I tried my best to think of Marge and of others. I silently begged for forgiveness.

The doorbell rang, then it rang again. A minute later it started ringing continuously.

Mary asked if I should see who was there.

I wanted to stop what we were doing, but I also had a good idea who was at the door. I told Mary I always had clients bothering me at home and I wasn’t going to let them interfere with me now.

I didn’t. We didn’t. And the doorbell eventually stopped ringing.

After what seemed like an eternity, we were finished. We lay together in a heap, neither of us saying a word. The last thing I remembered was her curled up in my arms, sleeping like a baby.

When I woke the next morning, I reached over for Mary, and with kind of a knee-jerk reaction jumped up when I saw she was gone. I called out but there was no answer. Looking in the guest room, I saw her clothes were gone too.

I shaved, showered, and dressed. When I opened the front door, I found a note waiting for me. The note was written in red lipstick, and read—

HEY YOU CREEP, WHY WOULDN’T YOU ANSWER YOUR DOORBELL—WHO WERE YOU SCREWING AROUND WITH? YOUR LOVER, MARGO.

It hadn’t rained the other night but there were stains on the paper as if someone had been crying over it. I was pretty sure it hadn’t been Marge.

Chapter 16

Max Roth showed up at nine o’clock on the dot and we shook hands and sat ourselves down. He looked out of place, shaved, with his hair combed back and clothes in decent order. He mumbled something about being sorry about the other day and being glad we could work things out.

I leaned back and gave him a friendly smile. “I’m even sorrier, Max,” I said. “I tried to phone you before you got here but I guess I just missed you. I wanted to save you the trip.”

“What do you mean?”

“The job I was planning for you fell through. Happened only ten minutes ago.”

The color in Max’s face dropped but he didn’t say a word or move a muscle. I continued, “You see, two days ago Mulrooney Construction called me. They were having problems with some materials disappearing. I know you favor that type of work, and hell, they can be good clients for repeat jobs. So while we were having our talk last night I couldn’t help thinking it would be only fair to give it to you.”

I was giving it to him alright.

“What”—his voice cracked and he cleared his throat—”what happened?”

“Just before you showed up I got a call from the old man over there that the situation had cleared itself up. One of their workers had himself an accident. Fell and broke both his legs. Lying there, he had some sort of revelation. Made a guess on where the stuff was. And he must have been psychic because he was right on the mark.”

“So that’s it, huh? You don’t have anything else?”

I shook my head, disappointed in him. Here Max hears about a fellow human being breaking both legs, and all he can think about is his own situation. Of course, this other person didn’t exist since I made up the story, but Max didn’t know that.

“It’s slow right now,” I said. “The only other job I have is some cop work, and I’d feel kind of bad offering you that. Narcotics department needs some help finding an informant.”

He didn’t say a word. He couldn’t, at least not knowing how things really stood. So we sat there staring at each other, him looking sick to his stomach and me smiling as if nothing were wrong. All he could do was guess whether I was leveling or stringing him along, but guessing just wasn’t good enough. After a long silence he asked, “So that’s the way it’s going to be. Fifty percent on that, right?”

I shrugged. “If we’re going to be more like partners then it’s only fair you take some of the bad with the good.”

There are times when the Denver police need help on a case and I take it on as a kind of public service to the community. They can’t pay more than a hundred and sixty dollars a day—part of some bureaucratic red tape—and I take the loss personally. I pay the full amount to whoever I subcontract to. Hell, it’s the only decent thing to do and I guess I make sure they all know it. But it’s the least I can do for the community that has done so much for me. Also it doesn’t hurt none to have some friendly officers on the force.

Max must have wanted to tell me to go to hell. But what if I were on the level? With our new arrangement he’d end up making only fifty percent on the hundred and sixty dollar fee. So he would end up a good eighty dollars worse off than before. And, even if he were able to get them as permanent clients, you just don’t want that type of work. Worse for your health than smoking. If he took the job and I weren’t on the level then I would be giving him the royal horselaugh. But if I were on the level—then maybe next time . . . .

It was a hell of a choice to make. And I could tell by his face that he wasn’t having a good time with it. The color slowly came back, mottling his cheeks.

He shrugged without much enthusiasm. “I guess it’s only fair and it’s better than nothing. Sure, why not?”

I gave him the information and after he left I gave him the royal horselaugh. Silently. Deep in the gut. You see, I’m the type of guy who would give anyone in the world the shirt off my back. I’d do it without expecting a thing in return except being treated fairly.

I don’t see that as expecting anything more than what’s right. And if someone is going to try to give me a hard time, he’d better cover himself because I’m going to stick it right back at him. In spades. And—

And the phone rang. It was Mary.

“I was going to call you,” I said. “Why were you in such a hurry this morning?”

“It was better that way.”

“Now, honey. What’s wrong?”

“Why should anything be wrong?”

“Well,” I sighed. “There isn’t any reason I can think of. Why don’t you tell me what’s bothering you.”

There was a long silence. Then, “Who was at your door last night?”

“No one. I’ve already told you that.”

“Who’s Margo?”

“Ahh, Mary,” I groaned. I wanted to kick Marge for leaving that letter. “She’s someone who doesn’t matter. Trust me.”

“Something that does matter. That man isn’t my father.”

I didn’t know what to say. She broke the silence by telling me she wanted to see me.

She didn’t want to come to my office. I tried asking her why, but she wouldn’t say. We arranged to meet at a diner a couple of blocks away.

* * * * *

Mary sat at the table as rigid as a three-day-old corpse.

I reached for her hand. She pulled it away.

“Mary,” I said, “I’m a little confused about what’s happening. Why’d you leave this morning without saying a word?”

Her eyes blazed, and if there had been an open can of gasoline sitting on the table we both would’ve been cooked.

“What difference does it make?”

“What differ—” I said, shaking my head. “Mary, I care about you.”

“I don’t care about you!” The four-alarm blaze going on in her eyes flared and then flickered out, leaving her looking a little pale around the gills. “Anyway, you don’t really care,” she added. “If you did, you’d have been with me last night.”

I asked, incredulously, “Where do you think I was?”

“You weren’t with me. Not really. While we were making—having sex, you were thinking of her.”

“Mary, I—” I stumbled a little, tongue-tied. “That’s just not so. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes, you do. But that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about. That man isn’t my father. My real father would never have tried to do that to me.”

“I know it’s unpleasant, but these things happen.”

“No!” she said, shaking her head, as if that would settle the issue. “I want you to tell me why you thought he was my father. Because he isn’t!”

Before getting Mary’s phone call, I was hungry enough to empty a refrigerator. Now though, I wasn’t sure if my stomach could even hold down a cup of coffee. When the waitress came over, I ordered the coffee anyway, and as she walked away, I heard her muttering something about big spenders.

“Like I already told you,” I said, after the waitress was out of earshot, “after your mother died you were given up for adoption. I dug around and found out who her boyfriend was. And he—Jerry Bry—admitted he was your father. He also confirmed you were given to an Oklahoma City adoption agency, and that the Williamses ended up adopting—”

“Did you show him my picture?”

“What?” I asked, puzzled.

“Did you show him my picture before you started asking him questions?”

“Well, I guess I did.” I saw where she was heading and I almost laughed, it was so farfetched. I played along, though. “I don’t understand—”

“Don’t you see?” she cut in. “He saw what I looked like before he told you anything.”

“I still don’t see what you’re getting at,” I mumbled, scratching my head.

“Johnny, he’s a pervert!” she shouted, almost jumping out of her seat. “He was lying to you. Don’t you see that?”

I let my mouth drop open.

“What do you know,” I murmured. As I’d already said, once Mary made her mind up about something, that was it. As crazy as it was, I had no choice but to go along with her. It’s funny, though. This probably would be the kind of stunt Bry would pull if given the opportunity. Quietly, I swore to myself I’d keep my promise about his neck, first chance I got.

“So he was just lying to me,” I said, as if I was in a daze.

“Yes!” Mary practically shouted at me, her eyes shining like diamonds. “He’s sick. He probably figured he’d get me alone, and that I’d have confused feelings about him, and he’d be able to take advantage—”

Anger flashed through her, choking her words. Since there was nothing else for me to do but agree with her, that’s what I did. “That’d be a hell of a thing to do,” I said, nodding. “But it would explain things.”

“Don’t you see what it means?” she asked. “The only reason you were sure that woman was my mother was because of what he’d told you. But if he was lying, then you still haven’t found her. She might still be alive.”

I could’ve kicked myself for not giving her a better story. “Yeah,” I nodded. “It’s possible. He might have been telling the truth, though.”

“No, my real mother’s alive. I can feel it. Trust me, Johnny.”

Well, what could I say? I told her I trusted her. “Mary,” I asked, “have you thought about filing attempted rape charges against him?”

“I thought about it, but I’m not going to.”

I shook my head. “Maybe you should. I can take you down to the police station.”

“No!” she insisted. “I just want to forget about him. Besides, I don’t want my parents finding out about it.”

Of course I didn’t want her filing charges, either—I couldn’t afford to let her—but I needed to know what she was planning.

“Yeah, well, if that’s the way you feel. Probably best just to forget about it,” I agreed. “So you haven’t told your parents about this?”

“No, I’ve already hurt them enough with this.”

“Did you tell anyone else about Jerry Bry?” I asked.

“No.” She gave me an odd look, like the other time in my office. “Why?”

It was a damn good question, one which I didn’t want to admit the answer to. “I feel a little ashamed about making such a dumb-assed mistake. I’m awful sorry about it.”

“I guess it’s understandable.” She lowered her eyes, hesitating. “Johnny, I think I should find another detective.”

The waitress came back with my coffee and kind of dumped it down with disgust. I took a sip, burning my mouth. “I sure wish you wouldn’t do that,” I said, trying my damndest to keep from smashing the coffee cup against the wall.

“It’s best that I do. We haven’t had much luck together.”

“I’d feel lousy about it,” I said. “I’d hate to think I let you down.”

She gave me a sad smile. “Don’t. I know you’ve done everything you could.”

“Mary,” I said, “I’ll work on it for free. If I don’t find your birth parents for you in two weeks I’ll give you back everything you’ve already paid me. Then you can hire yourself another detective if you need to.”

“I don’t know.” Doubt creased her brow, making her at that instant more beautiful than ever. I wanted to reach over and kiss her, but I didn’t think she’d understand the reason for it.

“It will all be over in two weeks. I promise.”

“I think it would be better if—” Indecision slowed her. Almost involuntarily, she nodded. “Okay.”

It was said so softly I almost didn’t hear it. She tried working a weak smile onto her face, but it just wouldn’t stick. “Johnny,” she said, “I’m sorry if I—”

I held up my hand to stop her. “You’ve got every right to be angry with me. There’s just no excuse for the mistake I made. But, darling, I promise it won’t happen again.”

The corners of her mouth turned up slightly. “I believe you.” She fumbled a little with her pocketbook. “I’ve got to go to class. I’m late as it is.”

Keeping her eyes glued to the ground, she headed towards the door. When she got there, she glanced over at me. For a second I thought she was going to say something, and I think she did too, but she left without saying a word.

At first I couldn’t think of anything, and then all of a sudden I started daydreaming about fishing. It’s funny. Fishing is something I’ve never done but always wanted to. I wondered how it would feel to do nothing more than float on a crystal clear lake, the only struggle being the one with your fishing pole. No worries trying to pull your nerves apart. I wondered if the last was possible.

Even though I tried to keep my thoughts on fishing, they drifted back to my childhood. To my momma, and poppa. And then to people I met later in my life. Walt Murphy. Rose.

The waitress planted herself in front of me, hands on hips, and snarled, “Hey, look. You bought some coffee, not the table. You gonna stay here all day?”

I looked up at her. I tried to smile, I really did, but the way she jumped back, I doubt if it came out that way. She mumbled something, but her words died before they got to me. She looked as if she’d fall over if I so much as snapped my fingers. For the hell of it I snapped them, but all she did was stumble as she walked away.

It didn’t look as if I had any choice but to talk with Rose, and I wasn’t looking forward to it. Last time I met with her she promised to give me a shotgun enema if she ever saw me again. Maybe those weren’t her exact words, but that was the gist of it.

And I had no reason to doubt she meant it.

Chapter 17

I took the first plane I could to Oklahoma City. It was almost twenty years since I’d last talked with Rose, and I tried to play that occasion back in my mind.

It all seemed pretty distant at first, but slowly I began to remember how it was that time when Rose came to see me. It was about a month after her husband died. I had tried explaining how things stood but she wouldn’t listen.

“Rosie, you know we can’t keep seeing each other. Don’t you think it would look damn funny after what happened? How long do you think it would take them to put a rope around my neck?”

“Why can’t we just pack up and leave Denver? We can start over someplace else, Johnny, someplace no one knows us. That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it?”

I had tried telling her over the phone how things had changed. I had talked myself blue in the face telling her what the situation was. She should have been able to see how it had to be. She should have thanked her maker I didn’t crack her thick skull open that day. How difficult was it to understand? The press had eaten up the whole crazy business and I was a hero, and people want to hire heroes.

I had shown Rose the offers I had gotten, a stack thick enough to choke a bull. If you’d taken all my offers from the previous year it wouldn’t have been enough to paper a birdcage. It was just plain selfish of her to think I would give up what the good Lord had just delivered to me. And for what, to start over again as a nickel and dime dick so I could get my brains beaten out every day? Now that I was finally rolling sevens she wanted me to crap out. Hell, if the woman really loved me she’d have understood and wanted to give me that chance. But I guess it was just a lot of steam.

I tried explaining it to her backwards and sideways and upside down. And a hell of a lot of good it did me. After a while she stopped her complaining and got quiet. Then she got mean.

“Why did you have to say I was cheating on him? Everywhere I go people whisper things. I’ve started getting obscene phone calls.”

“I wasn’t lying, was I? Honey, I guess sometimes the truth hurts. If you didn’t want to be known as a whore, you shouldn’t have been banging behind your husband’s back.”

“You bastard. You dirty stinking bastard. Why did you have to kill him? It wasn’t for us and you’re a goddamned fucking liar if you try to say so.”

“I don’t really know why it happened, honey, but I do honestly think I did it for you.”

“You’re unbelievable! You’re a monster! What if I told the police you were lying?”

“Well now, I wouldn’t recommend that. Right now we’re both safe. The police believe every God-fearing thing I say. But if you were to change that out of pure selfishness, I would have to tell them we worked the deal together. I would hate to put the rope around your neck, too, but what choice would I have?”

“That’s a lie!”

“Rosie, I’m not going to disagree with you. The police would have to be goddamned fools to believe me. But you just never know about these things.”

“You . . . you dirty bastard!”

“You know, darling, if I were you, I’d be worried living here in Denver. I wouldn’t think you’d be too safe here, what with all the stories going around, and folks feeling the way they do about you.”

At that moment my little Rose would have sent me straight to hell if she could have. I couldn’t blame her for spitting in my face. Life was dealing the two of us some lousy cards.

When she started making her wild accusations, I shrugged them off and tried my best to console her in her misery. But when she started calling me those names, well, even though I knew she was saying those things out of anger and she’d regret it later, I couldn’t let those names slide. Some things a man just shouldn’t take.

I do regret slapping her as much as I did, but not a single damned one of those names were true. Not one. Sometimes your luck stinks. Sometimes things happen that you don’t have any control over. But that doesn’t mean you don’t feel bad about it. None of those names related to me.

* * * * *

You’re probably thinking, now wait a minute, that doesn’t agree with my earlier confession. I can’t argue with you on that point. Before, I just wasn’t quite telling the whole truth about the way it happened with Walter Murphy. Not all of it anyway. I guess I try to think of it as the way everyone knows it. And when I can’t, I don’t really like thinking of it exactly like it was. Some of it, I just don’t like admitting to.

So it’s no surprise to any of you that sweet little Rose was really cheating on her husband. And it’s also no surprise that I knew all about it before I ever met him. You see, Rose was crazy about me and you could hardly blame her for that. There’s something about me woman grab onto and don’t like letting go of. It’s just a shame I usually end up having to pry their fingers loose. And sometimes I’m forced to do quite a bit more than that.

For about a year Rose and me were seeing each other whenever we could. We were careful about it. I made sure of that. No one would have found out about us if it were up to me.

I have to be fair to Rose. You might be thinking Rosie and me were working together to get rid of her husband. That’s not true. Rose told her husband about us because she wanted us to be together. She wanted everything out in the open so they could divorce and her and me and everyone else in the whole goddamned world could live happily ever after. She had no idea I would do what I did. How could she? If she’d only had the good sense to tell me what she was planning I would’ve slapped the idea right out of her.

So her husband coming to see me was as big a surprise to me as the rest of what happened. And he certainly didn’t want to hire me for anything. He just wanted me to stop seeing his wife. But he should have been nicer about it.

I guess he had a right to be upset, what with me being with his wife whenever I wanted and him knowing all about it, but he still had no right saying those things. Maybe if he hadn’t, the sickness wouldn’t have come over me. I don’t know. It might have happened anyway. Rosie had told me all about him, all about the things he used to do to her.

Most of what happened was the way I already described it. Not all of it, though. After I put a hole through his belly, I didn’t exactly forget about him. I guess I spent part of the time thinking about what I did, part of the time drinking, and part of the time teasing him.

It’s funny, but that part of it has crystallized itself in my mind over the years. Sometimes, before waking, I can see it all over again. I can see him lying on the floor, his face white and bloodless, a stream of red leaking from his stomach. He’s begging me for help, and I’m standing over him, grinning like a bastard. Sometimes I can even hear what was said.

“Please help me. Call me a doctor.”

“Okay, you’re a doctor. Ha ha. Seriously, I’d like to, but if I’m the human garbage you say I am, then why should I? It’s funny, but in a few hours you’re the one they’re going to be shoveling out of here like a pile of crap. Makes you wonder who the garbage is.”

“Oh fuck. I’ll tell them it was an accident, that it was my fault. I won’t say anything, please. I promise.”

“Got to agree with you there. In a few hours you won’t be saying much of anything.”

“I’m dying.”

“Well, you better enjoy it while you can because that’s all you’ve got left.”

“Damn it, help me!”

“I’ll tell you what I’ll do for you. Later, after you’ve been incinerated, I’ll warm up your wife. I won’t get her as burnt up as you, but I’ll get her nice and hot, don’t worry about that.”

“You sick bastard—”

“There you go again. Just when I was thinking of getting you some help, you have to go and hurt my feelings.”

When I think about it, when I make myself think about why I did it, I have to think it was for Rosie.

* * * * *

After landing, I rented a car and drove straight out to Rose’s little clapboard shack. Walking up to her door, I couldn’t help feeling disgusted. I know the place wasn’t much, but that was still no reason for the neglect it had suffered. She could’ve at least planted some grass out front or put on a fresh coat of paint occasionally. Or maybe fixed the mailbox before it fell over completely. As it was, the place was a mess.

I rang the doorbell. The latch was pushed back and the door opened a few inches. I saw Rose peering out through the crack.

“Hello, Rosie.” Recognition hit her and she tried shoving the door closed, but I pushed back against it and made my way in. I closed the door behind me.

“Y-You,” she stammered at me. “Get out of here or I’ll scream.”

“Is that any way to talk to an old friend?”

“I mean it. Get out now!”

“You still have such a nice set of teeth,” I said. “It’d be a shame if they were knocked all over this room. Besides,” I added, “it didn’t look to me like your neighbors were home so I don’t see how screaming would do you any good.”

Rose had to be almost forty now and she still looked good for her age. Nice and thin, and, as best I could tell, nothing was sagging. But I’ll tell you, with the way she was twisting up her face it was tough to judge exactly how good the years had been to her.

“Wh-What do you want?” Just so you don’t get the wrong idea, she wasn’t stuttering out of fear or anything like that. Just out of being boiling mad.

“Do I need a reason to want to see you?” I started worrying that if her face twisted itself up any more, something would fall off. “I’m just here for a friendly little chat, that’s all,” I said.

“Y-You left that picture at my door last week, didn’t you?”

I nodded. “To be honest, that was an accident. Look, I’m starving. You got anything to eat?”

She didn’t say a word, so I walked over to the kitchen. The only stuff in the refrigerator that wasn’t wilted or spoiled was some yogurt, cheese, and eggs. I took out a couple of eggs and the cheese.

I found bread in the cupboard and used up the cheese making myself a sandwich. The plane trip had put some sort of hole in my stomach, and I could tell that the scraps I was putting together weren’t going to help much. I took the sandwich and eggs back out to Rose, and tossed the eggs to her.

“Why don’t you scramble these for me. You remember how I like them. Right, Rosie?”

She planted her foot forward and hurled the eggs at me, but her aim was a little wild and they sailed over my head and splattered against the wall.

“I don’t know if I agree with yellow over there,” I said.

Rosie dropped into a chair making funny animal sounds. I sat down and started eating my sandwich, taking time to chew it carefully. When I was finished she was still making those sounds. That was the thing with her and Mary, they sure loved a good cry.

“Did you sleep with her?” she asked, looking up at me.

Her eyes were shining like mad, and a grin a mile wide was stretching her lips across her face. I realized the animal sounds weren’t the result of her crying. She had been laughing.

“The girl in the picture,” I said uneasily, “is your daughter. She hired me to find her birth parents. When I came here last week, I hadn’t made the connection between Rose Martinez and my Rosie Murphy. I guess I made it right before you answered the door.”

She nodded. “You did sleep with her. You want to guess who the father is?”

She started laughing again, those same damned animal sounds. Softer than before, but they cut right through me. Of course I knew who Mary’s father was. I knew as soon as I had seen Rose last time and made the connection with my Rosie Murphy. I must have known, at least at a subconscious level, that day Mary and I were together and I got sick. I’ve gone over the dates a dozen times since then and nothing else is possible. Mary may look a lot like Rose, but if you squint real hard you can see some of my features in her.

“Well, anyway,” I said, “she—your daughter—wants to see you.”

“I don’t want to see her.”

“Rosie, she’s a sweet kid. What harm would it do to talk to her?”

She shrugged. “It’s a free country. If you bring her here, I’ll talk. You can bet on that. I’ll tell her about her father. I’ll tell her all about you. How you killed my husband out of pure spite. How you ruined my life on a whim. How you’re nothing but an empty twisted psychopath. Don’t worry, I’ll have a nice chat with her.”

She stood up and spat at me. I took out a handkerchief and very slowly wiped off my face, taking deep breaths as I did so.

I put the handkerchief away and smiled at her. “Rose, you’re not thinking clearly. If you were to say things like that, well, I’d have to tell her how killing Walt was as much your idea as mine. Where would that leave you?”

“I don’t care,” she said softly. Her face relaxed, and I could see she was still beautiful. “It’s about time I told the truth and stopped worrying about your lies. The truth hurts, doesn’t it, Johnny? You want to know something? I almost feel sorry for you.”

“Yeah, well, don’t tell me you didn’t want me to kill your husband,” I said, feeling a sneer twisting my lips.

“N-No!” she stammered. “I didn’t want you to!”

“Oh no?” I opened my eyes wide. “You sure didn’t seem all that upset after it happened. The next day you were all over me, hugging and kissing me like crazy. I guess we all show our grief in different ways, but I sure never saw your way before.”

“I didn’t want him killed! I never said anything like—”

“A real angel of mercy,” I said. “Cut the crap. I did you a favor and you know it. You told him about me because you wanted what happened. You knew, didn’t you, honey?”

“No! I told Walt about you because I thought we loved each other. I didn’t know you were just using me.”

“I wasn’t, Rosie. I did love you.”

Looking at her with her face unclenched, I could remember why I used to sneak around to get a piece of her. She still had those soft brown eyes that could melt butter and lips that would give any man ideas. I let my eyes fall down to the rest of her and felt my heart skip a beat. The dungarees she was wearing didn’t hide much, and I could see her body still had a wonderful compactness about it, the type that used to keep me busy until sunrise, and sometimes long after that.

I wet my lips. “I’ve missed you, Rosie. Sometimes I think giving you up was the biggest mistake I ever made. Why didn’t you tell me you were pregnant? It might have been different if you had.”

She didn’t say anything.

“Do you ever think of me like before?” I asked, keeping my eyes on her waist, thinking how nice she’d look if she’d just take those pants off.

“I’m tired, go home. I don’t want you here. Please, just go.”

“Rosie, this isn’t right. We should try to work things out.” I walked over to her. “Maybe it’s not too late for us. Maybe we could make it right this time.”

She turned her head away and I put my hand under her chin, turning her face back towards mine. I reached down to kiss her and there was a whirl of motion and a searing pain over my eye. I stumbled back and grasped my forehead, feeling a warm stickiness spreading across my hand.

I couldn’t see anything except a redness, and it wasn’t blood. I stood frozen, afraid to move a muscle, afraid of what I’d do if I let myself move even an inch. A pounding in my ears was trying to deafen me, but over it I could make out the sounds of someone rustling about and then the loading of a shotgun.

I could hear footsteps running towards me and then Rosie’s voice in a high-pitched scream begging me to try something. I wanted to. It would have made everything so easy. All I had to do was move an inch, just say a word, and it all would’ve been over. I sure wanted to oblige her, but I didn’t move.

I guess life isn’t meant to be easy. When another weight is rolled onto your back, you just have to shoulder the burden and keep moving. But sometimes it’s so damn tempting to lie down. Sometimes you just want to close your eyes and stop the weariness.

The red haze that was blinding me drifted away. Blood had dripped into my eyes, making me wince, but through it I could see Rose holding a shotgun. The barrel was doing a snake dance in front of my face.

“Move, damn you! Try something you dirty bastard!” she screamed, tears lining her sweet, pretty face.

Well, as I said, I wanted to oblige her. I really did but it wouldn’t have been right. I turned from her and walked towards the door.

She screamed at me. Even as I was turning the ignition in the car she was still going at it. When I was a block away I could still hear her.

I looked in my rearview mirror and saw that she’d done quite a number on me. The skin was torn from the middle of my forehead to above the eye. Blood still trickled down, giving me a red streak across my face.

I stopped at a drugstore and bought disinfectant and bandages. I asked the girl working behind the counter if she had a mirror, and she told me I could use a bathroom in the back.

I cleaned out the wounds and applied the disinfectant. I couldn’t keep from swearing—it stung like hell. I needed several bandages to cover the scratches and I grimaced seeing my face all puffed out and looking like a piece of raw steak.

I was lucky the crazy bitch hadn’t scratched my eye out and I had no doubt that’s what she intended. For a moment I thought about how it would serve her right if someone kicked down her door and broke her neck. No one could argue that she deserved it. The only problem, though, was that it wouldn’t stop Mary from finding out about her. If something like that were to happen to Rose now, well, that would be as bad as anything else.

As I was leaving I thanked the girl for the use of the bathroom. She looked at me with some concern and asked if I shouldn’t see a doctor.

“I’ll be okay, thanks,” I said. “How did you get those cuts?”

“Walked right into a stone wall.” It wasn’t until I got to the airport that I was able to remove the grin from my face.

Chapter 18

The doorbell woke me up. Looking out the window I saw Marge holding a shopping bag, tapping her foot impatiently and looking worried. I felt like ignoring her and sliding back into bed but I knew the ringing wouldn’t stop.

I opened the door and her eyes moved to the bandages. As she realized what they were covering, her expression shifted from worry to something mean.

“So, lover,” she sneered, “you all alone in there?”

I nodded, squinting at the light.

“Who did that to you, the slut you were screwing around with the other night?”

“I just got back from a case and found your note. Made me feel awful funny.”

“You weren’t home two nights ago?” she asked, biting her lip.

I shook my head. “I didn’t get back until three last night.”

“But your car was here!”

The wound Rose gave me was beating faster than a rabbit’s heart. I steadied myself against the door. “When I go away, I always take a cab to the airport.”

“But—”

“It hurt me,” I interrupted, “to see how little you trusted me.”

She flinched as if she’d been slapped. “I-I’m sorry, Johnny. When I saw your car here and you wouldn’t answer your door—” The sentence died in her throat. She held up her shopping bag. “I’ve got breakfast,” she said weakly.

I didn’t feel like fighting. I moved aside, letting her slip by. She put the bag down and moved over to a chair. “First, I want to see how bad that is. Sit down over here.”

I let her take the bandages off. “Ouch,” she said, her face wrinkling. “How did it happen?”

“I was trying to get information about a missing persons case. This damn dope addict”—I laughed, sourly—”thought my head was a scratching post.”

She kissed me on the other side of my forehead. “Close your eyes, darling. I’ll be right back.”

I did as I was told and heard her high heels tapping down the hallway. Then a faucet was turned on and in a minute she was back at my side, patting at my forehead with a damp washcloth as carefully as if she was cleaning the dirt off a butterfly’s wing.

“I don’t know, Johnny,” she said. “These scratches are pretty deep. Maybe I should take you to a doctor?”

“No, there’s nothing to worry about.”

Concern wrinkled her brow and pulled her smile apart. “I’m going to put something on them,” she said. “Hold tight.”

The ointment she used stung worse than hell, and if I thought she was enjoying it I would have slapped her silly. I could tell from her eyes, though, that she wasn’t. I think it even hurt her, maybe not as much as me, but a little. When she was through she put on fresh bandages.

“I’m going to make you breakfast.” She rubbed my shoulder gently. “Now lie down and I’ll yell for you when it’s ready.”

She left me, and then cried out from the kitchen that she was going to make eggs, bacon, and pancakes. After a few minutes, she yelled out again, asking if I wanted my eggs over easy.

I said something about liking everything easy. I started drifting off and a loud bang knocked me out of it. Quite a racket was coming from the kitchen. Marge was dropping pots and swearing up a storm and bumping into things. After a while it got quieter, and then there was the tap-tap-tap sound of Marge’s high heels again.

She squatted in front of me, lowering herself to my level. “Breakfast is served,” she informed me, a hesitant smile breaking over her face.

Everything was already spooned out onto plates. The eggs were overcooked and were staring up at me like hard, jaundiced eyes. I tried the pancakes and they were okay as long as I used my soupspoon on them. The bacon, though, needed to be cleaned off. It looked like it had been dropped on the floor and kicked around some. I ended up eating all of it. I had more on my mind than food.

I knew what would happen if Mary found Rose. When the shock wore off she’d head straight to the police. Sooner or later Eddie Braggs would get wind of it, and when he did, I’d be on the front page, built up as every kind of scourge to mankind. Eddie wouldn’t slow down until the Walt Murphy murder case was reopened, and it would be reopened, eventually. Our current district attorney is more gutless than Walt Murphy was when I had finished with him. He’d cave in under the pressure and . . . .

I had played it out a thousand times in my mind since I first found Rose and I couldn’t see it happening any other way. Unless Mary never met up with Rose, and there was only one way that could happen.

Marge had said something and was now repeating herself. “I hope you liked breakfast. I don’t cook much.”

“I cleaned my plate, didn’t I?” While I was eating I’d been trying to make up my mind about something. I smiled at her. “What would you think about going on a trip with me?”

I planned on traveling south. First Mexico, and then South America. By the time Mary found out about Rose, I’d be long gone. There’d be enough fake passports thrown about that not even Braggs would be able to sniff out my trail. At least that’s what I was counting on.

Marge seemed genuinely surprised. “Where do you want to go?”

“I don’t know,” I pretended to muse. “Maybe someplace South. How’s Mexico sound?”

“It sounds great, Johnny. When do we leave?”

“In a few hours. Maybe this afternoon.”

She frowned. “I can’t just take off like that. If I don’t show up for work Monday, I’ll be fired.”

I shrugged. “I don’t want to twist your arm. If you don’t want to go, don’t.”

“But—” She bit her lip. As she weighed the pros and cons, she pushed her bottom lip out, making herself look like an orangutan. It was a cute habit, but one I’d have to break her of if she was going to spend any time with me.

“Look, darling,” I said, “forget it, okay? I’ll see you around.”

Her lips formed a small circle, and her lungs emptied out. “I want to go with you, Johnny. I guess I can call work Monday and if they don’t like it I can always find another job.”

She moved over to me and placed her palms on my chest. “I love you, Johnny,” she said, her eyes expanding to the size of silver dollars.

“Sure you do,” I said, slapping her on the rear.

“I do, Johnny.” She nodded solemnly. “I feel that I know everything about you. I know you’re filled with pain. I just know it. I can feel it and I want to help you.”

I let my hand linger in the general area of the slap, feeling something myself. I gave her a little squeeze and she squealed.

“I know how you can help me,” I said.

“I bet you do!” She giggled, pushing herself away. “But if we’re leaving today, I’ve got a lot to do. Honey, would you mind cleaning up in the kitchen?”

“Not at all.” I gave her another pinch and she gave me another giggle.

“How long are we going to be away?” she asked.

I winked. “If you’re a good girl, maybe forever. Give me a call in a couple of hours and I’ll let you know what the plans are.”

Her eyes lit up and she pushed herself into me, kissing me hard enough to almost break a tooth. “Just a coming attraction.”

I walked into the kitchen, checking my teeth to make sure she hadn’t loosened any. Looking around, I was amazed at what she’d done to the place. Bowls, pots, utensils were scattered about. Where she could’ve used one thing, she’d used three. I could’ve left everything where it was but instead I rolled up my sleeves and went at it. Even though there was no reason to care about the mess, I didn’t want to leave any more unfinished business than I had to.

After straightening things up, I called a travel agent and booked a six o’clock flight to Mexico City. I then went to my bank and got enough cash for a month. When the time was right I would transfer my funds to a Swiss account, but I didn’t have to hurry on that. While I hated the idea of abandoning my house, I doubted that I could sell it before Mary found Rose. Well, anyway, the bank owned half of it and I couldn’t afford to be greedy.

I couldn’t quite figure out why I asked Marge to come along. I didn’t plan to take her to South America with me. I guess I felt like having company for the next few days. I’m not the type who handles worrying very well; it kind of bubbles inside me, twisting my stomach into a thin sausage. Running, like I was, gave me plenty to worry about, and maybe I was hoping Marge would take the edge off the first few days. I knew they’d be the worst.

* * * * *

Marge was waiting for me at the airport, giddy as a kid looking forward to her first plane ride. She was decked out in a short bright-red number that made her waist look thin enough to fit a necklace that would choke most other women. The dress reached down just enough to cover her panties and did a good job of playing up all of her assets, although they really didn’t need any help. A gal once tried convincing me that the perfect size of a woman’s breast is only what fits into a champagne glass and anything else is wasted. I didn’t buy it, and I’m sure Marge wouldn’t have either. She had enough for a half-dozen champagne glasses and none of it was wasted.

She saw me and came over running, giving me a big kiss. As she pulled away she grinned and asked if I liked the way she looked.

I wanted to take her to the nearest hotel and show her exactly what I thought, and if there was a later plane I would’ve. Instead, all I could do was swallow hard and try to keep my jaw from dropping.

“Oh,” she exclaimed. “We’re going to miss this month’s ‘Fast Lane’.”

She was right. My feature wasn’t going to be published until tomorrow. It didn’t look like I’d get a chance to see how Eddie had taken care of things.

“Well,” I said, “you’ll just have to be satisfied with the real thing.” That made her giggle, which made her body bounce under her dress, which made me think more about that hotel room. We checked in and boarded the plane.

* * * * *

After we settled into our seats, she tried talking to me. Somewhere over Texas, though, she gave up, and I was grateful. The finality of what I was doing hadn’t really hit me until the plane started moving, and then it all washed over me, leaving my stomach twisted worse than a blanket in a hurricane.

I looked at Marge. Even though her small talk had ripped through me worse than Rose’s nails, I was glad she was with me. I was going to need something to occupy myself with. Especially at night when it becomes so damn quiet.

I tried blanking out my thoughts. I tried concentrating on the hum of the engine. I tried thinking of Marge in that dress. I tried imagining myself fishing. I tried . . . .

Nothing worked. My mind kept flooding with images of Mary. I knew what was going to happen and I couldn’t keep it out of my head.

Mary would find it suspicious that she couldn’t contact me. She’d wait until my two weeks were up but after that she’d hire another detective. It wouldn’t take long for him to find Rose. Another two weeks at the most.

So there it was. In four weeks the fuse was going to be lit. I couldn’t guess how long it would take after that for the explosion, but I knew it was going to come. And it was going to be one hell of a blast. It would have to be with Eddie Braggs doing everything he could to add gunpowder to it. Probably end up a national story. And after that . . . .

No matter how well you think you’ve planned things, there’s always something you missed. Or maybe you looked at all the angles but something from left field botches it up for you.

There was always the risk I’d be recognized. Maybe a foreign correspondent who’s heard of me, or some old biddy on vacation who used to clip out my stories. Or maybe a private investigator hired to find me. I knew Mary wouldn’t bother with something like that, but I wasn’t sure about Eddie Braggs. He just might be mad enough.

I also knew that I was always going to be looking over my shoulder. It wouldn’t matter how well I thought I was hidden, it wouldn’t be good enough. For the moment, maybe, but what about the next day or the day after that?

In a way I’d be willing to turn myself in if it could be done quietly. If folks could go on admiring me and slapping my back. If it didn’t end with the way it would have to. With people calling me those names. Or telling jokes about me. Or looking at me funny . . . or thinking they were better than me. That would be the worst part of it.

Worry was churning around in my stomach. I knew it was never going to go away, at least not entirely. All I could hope for was to learn to live with it.

Chapter 19

On the way to the hotel, I told the cabbie to stop off at a liquor store. Marge started giving me funny looks, but tried holding in whatever it was she was dying to say. But she couldn’t.

“Johnny,” she said softly. “I was hoping we could lay off the stuff. You know, make this trip a fresh start.”

“I just want to get enough for a nightcap,” I muttered. “But we’ll watch what we drink.”

“Promise, Johnny?”

“Cross my heart.”

The cab pulled over and I got out. That was all I needed, Marge nagging me about drinking. Now more than ever I was going to need a few drinks to take the edge off my worrying.

I bought a quart of scotch and another of rye. When Marge saw the bottles her face went white but she didn’t say anything. During the cab ride she sat with her hands balled up into tiny fists. When we got to the hotel she grabbed both suitcases, ignoring my offer to help, and made sure she was two steps ahead of me. Inside the room, though, she loosened up. I guess she decided it wasn’t worth losing any sleep over.

“So, lover.” She wrapped both arms around my neck. “What should we do first?”

“Why don’t we have a drink and celebrate our first night in Mexico?”

I pulled away from her and reached for the scotch. Pouring it, my hand was shaking.

“I don’t want any.”

“No? I guess I’ll have to celebrate for you.”

“You bastard.” She laughed. “Okay then.” I filled a glass about a quarter way and handed it to her. I then took my drink in three gulps, spilling a little down my chin. The alcohol tightened my stomach, and then everything inside sort of dulled. I would have liked another drink, but I knew I’d like another one after that and sooner or later the bottle would be empty. Too much needed to be done over the next few days to start getting plastered.

She put her drink down and sat cross-legged on the bed. “What next?” she asked.

“You got any ideas?”

She pursed her lips. “Maybe one.”

She straightened her legs, and, reaching behind her, pulled the dress over her head. It was a good thing her dress reached down past her panties. A damn good thing, since she wasn’t wearing any.

She asked, “Can you think of anything yet?”

I wanted another drink. My insides were begging for one, but I couldn’t afford to give in. I joined Marge on the bed. We started to go at it, or at least we tried to. I have to give Marge credit for giving it her best shot. She tried things I wouldn’t have dreamed of, but nothing worked. After a while she fell on her back, red-faced and breathing hard from her efforts. I prayed she wouldn’t say anything.

“These things happen,” she said, hesitating. “It’s nothing to worry about.”

I kept quiet, hoping she’d be smart enough to shut up. I held my breath. She couldn’t leave it alone, though. “You’re tired from all the traveling. Tomorrow you’ll be as good as new, you’ll see. I bet—”

“Shut up.”

“—that you’ll be a new man with a little sleep. Don’t worry about it, Johnny. It means nothing at—”

“Shut up!”

At least she had sense enough to listen to me. I put my pants on and left.

* * * * *

When I came back later Marge was in bed, snoring worse than a pack of dogs. I slipped in next to her and tried to get some sleep, but nothing was coming easy. I fell into this crazy cycle where, right before drifting into unconsciousness, I would jerk out of it, panicked that if I fell asleep I’d forget how to breathe. It got to the point where I was afraid to close my eyes.

After a while I became terrified that I’d collapse into sleep and then suffocate. I lay there sweating like a pig, and well, what Marge couldn’t do with all her effort, was accomplished out of pure necessity. I had to do something to keep my mind off all that craziness and what I did was to start rubbing her.

She groaned, and slowly became aware of what was going on. When we were finished she whispered to me that she knew I’d be okay if I just gave it a little time.

I prayed she was right but somehow I knew I wasn’t going to be. After the snoring started up again I tried closing my eyes but the same damn craziness took me over. Somehow I got the strength to crawl over to Marge. It kept up like that the whole night. Each time we finished I would try closing my eyes, but that same damn panic would overtake me. Somehow, even though I wouldn’t think it possible, I’d end up on top of her.

I guess at some point I must have collapsed into unconsciousness because Marge woke me up the next morning.

Her face was filled with that big easy smile of hers. In a soft, husky voice she said, “I’m all sore from last night. You couldn’t keep your hands off me.”

I blinked, trying to get my bearings. As bad as my stomach felt the night before it would’ve been a blessing if it felt that way now. I got to my feet and staggered to the bathroom.

When I was done, I got up off my knees and sat quietly while a cold chill shook through me. I looked in the mirror and groaned at what I saw. My eyes were red and had a hollow look to them. The hollowness seemed magnified by a gray clamminess that tinged my skin. I bent over the sink and splashed cold water on my face. I kept it up, hoping to wash away the nausea that had worked its way into my temples.

There was a knock on the door and Marge asked if I was okay.

I ignored her and kept up with the cold water. Another knock. Then Marge’s voice again, this time with a hysterical edge to it.

I opened the door. “Couldn’t hear you with the water running.”

She studied me, the color draining from her face. “Johnny, you look awful.”

“Thanks for the compliment.” I walked past her and poured myself a drink. The scotch hit me like a mule’s kick, and then seemed to warm everything up. I strolled over to her and gave her a pinch. “You don’t look so hot yourself in the morning.”

Concern was still working on her face, making her bite her lip. She placed her palm against my forehead. “You’re a little warm. Maybe your cut is infected. Let me take a look.”

I laughed. “I’m a little worn out, that’s all.”

“Are you sure?”

I nodded. “You look like you could use a hot bath.”

“That’s okay, I really—”

“No,” I said. “You’ll feel better. Go ahead. I’ll be fine.”

She shrugged and walked into the bathroom. After I heard the water start to run, I picked up the phone.

Chapter 20

I was woken up the next morning by Marge shouting. “But . . . can’t you give me a break? . . . Look, I didn’t have any choice! . . . You know what you can do with your lousy job! . . . Yeah, just make sure you don’t bend over near a cattle ranch! . . . Because they’ll try milking you, you fat cow! . . . Drop dead and rot!”

She slammed the phone down and stared at it for a few seconds, then turned to me, still seething. “The dirty bitch can take her job and cram it. She was always jealous of me because the only thing that will touch her is her underwear. Even her vibrators go soft.”

She lifted her eyes to the ceiling and yelled, “Screw it!” Then she gave me her bared-fanged smile. “So, lover, what are we going to do to celebrate my being fired?”

I took some money from my wallet and handed it to her. “Why don’t you go buy yourself something nice?”

“I like that idea. Come on, get dressed and we’ll go shopping.”

“I’ve got some business to do this morning,” I said. “You go and I’ll meet you for a late lunch.”

She was going to say something, I knew she wanted to, but she held it back. Instead, she shook her head and muttered something under her breath.

The clock next to the bed showed that it was nine thirty. I had an eleven o’clock appointment. Marge gave me a long, cold stare, her mouth moving as if she were chewing gum, then turned on her heels and walked out the door.

* * * * *

A thin blond hawk-nosed man sat at a corner table in the lobby. He was dressed sharply in a cream-colored suit and a straw fedora rested on his head. He could’ve been Dutch or German. When he saw me he nodded.

I approached his table and, in a thick accent, he asked, “Johnny Lane?”

Along with his hawk nose, he had small fish eyes that were set off by a white paleness, making his face almost wax-like. I sat down across from him and returned his nod.

“Some identification, please.”

I handed him my passport. He studied it, and passed it back to me. He gave me the type of smile you’d see on a ventriloquist’s dummy. “On the phone you said you like to do some business. First, I need to know how you get my name.”

“From an acquaintance of mine, Tex Halley.”

“Tex Halley?” He frowned. “Yes, I remember. It went very smoothly. It is so much nicer when things go smoothly. All you want is new passport and identification. Very simple. Less messy than your friend wanted. Give you bargain. Only five thousand American dollars.”

I swallowed, feeling a hotness in my cheeks. “You told me it would be three thousand.”

He shrugged. “It is very hard to understand these things. Prices change daily. My costs tied to intangibles like politics and mood of officials, things very difficult to be precise about.”

“It might be difficult for me not to shove your head through that wall.”

He gave me a long look before exchanging glances with a heavy-set man standing by the bar, who nodded and cast his eyes down to the floor. By the way the man at the bar was standing I could tell he was aware of my every move. Hawknose turned back to me. “I hope you do not try something like that,” he said.

I saw the heavy-set man slip a hand into his jacket pocket. I didn’t care. “I’ll take my chances.” I braced myself because I meant it.

Hawknose frowned as he considered the situation. “There is no reason to take such attitude,” he said. “It is only business, right? Okay, I don’t want unhappy customers. We do it for four thousand and five hundred American dollars. Very fair, believe me.”

I didn’t say anything. Hawknose glanced towards the bar where the heavy-set man was showing off a toothless grin.

“Bien.” Hawknose nodded. “All agreed, no? Fair for everyone. You have photograph for me?”

I gave him a two-by-two passport shot.

He remarked that it was a good likeness and asked what name I wanted to use. I pulled one out of the air, and he wrote it on the back of the photograph.

“Where do you want to come from?”

“How about Canada?”

He shook his head. “No one believe you from Canada.” The heavyset man was frowning in agreement. “More believable if from American West. We make it Las Vegas, Nevada. You can be big shot high roller.”

“You make it that,” I snapped, “and I’ll roll your butt out the window.”

He blinked his fish eyes and shrugged. “You don’t like that, we use something else. How about Montana? We use that, then?”

“Sure.”

“Very interesting,” he added, “that you react like so. Why do you not like Nevada?”

“No reason,” I muttered, shifting a little. “Let’s get on with this.”

“Of course, of course,” he said. “Just curious, that is all. Why you react that way?”

“It doesn’t matter, okay?”

“Okay with me.” From the bar, I could see the heavy-set man, indicating it was okay with him also. “You pay me three thousand dollars now and rest when we deliver documents. Everything will be ready in one week.”

I tossed a wad of bills on the table. He sat back down and counted them, all two thousand dollars.

He shrugged. “Bien,” he said. “Acceptable. We give you new identity in one week. Have you thought about old one?”

“What do you mean?”

“Very simple,” he explained. “If old identity were to die, make it less likely that new identity will be looked for.”

“I still don’t get it.” But I did—I got every damn bit of it.

“For fifteen thousand American dollars Johnny Lane could die in car accident.”

I didn’t say anything. Even though I knew where he was heading, it stunned me. Because maybe I had been—

“Body burnt beyond recognition,” he continued. “Wallet and passport left with body, and as far as United States concerned, Johnny Lane dies in tragic accident. No need to search for him. Very good bargain, believe me.”

“Who will you get to play me?”

“Does not matter. Body will not be examined closely. I make sure of that.”

From the doorway I could see Marge walking by. Her head turned, and as she caught sight of me she did a double take. With a nervous smile, she squeezed through the bar area and made her way to our table.

“I was just coming back from shopping and saw you sitting here, Johnny. I bought an itsy-bitsy bikini. Maybe we can go to the pool later and you can let me know what you think?”

She shot Hawknose a glance, and he shrunk back in his chair looking a little startled. She said nervously, “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?”

“Just an old college buddy. Look, why don’t you go try that on? I’ll meet you in a few minutes.”

“You better.” She pouted, but it was forced. She was uneasy with my company. She reached over and gave me a kiss, letting it linger. As she pulled away her eyes flashed. She gave Hawknose a curt nod, then turned and walked out of the lobby, letting her hips sway to an exaggerated beat as she moved.

“Excellent,” Hawknose exclaimed, nodding admiringly. “Very shrewd to bring her. Her body will be found only little bit burnt, yours like . .. . charcoal. It will be, as you say, open and shut case. Tragic jeep accident while riding to mountains. Very good, we do it for twenty-five thousand dollars.”

I shook my head involuntarily.

“No?” he asked. “I do not understand. Why you bring her then?” That couldn’t be the reason. But why had I brought Marge?

“I see.” He smiled. “Okay, let us not haggle. Twenty thousand dollars. We got deal, no?”

“No!” It couldn’t have been for our nightly tumbles, though. I never have any problems meeting gals for that. Just step in a bar and smile. But if I didn’t bring her for that, could it be possible I . . . .

Looking perturbed, Hawknose turned to the heavy-set man who shrugged and scratched his head. He was going to try to argue with me, but something about my look told him it was no use. “Okay. If you change your mind, contact me. We do it for same price. Trust me, nothing to worry about, but could be if you don’t get smart.”

He stood up and gave me a sour look, and then followed his associate from the lobby.

I ordered a drink, then another, and before long it would’ve been cheaper to have bought the bottle. Sometimes it’s hard to understand why you do certain things. You think it’s for one reason, but all you’re really doing is just playing along. Maybe deep down you understand, maybe not, but when the time is right it all comes straight out of you. You end up reacting like a cold-blooded automaton, doing what you were meant to do from the start. Maybe I had planned that for Marge. Maybe I just hadn’t realized it yet.

* * * * *

By the time I left the lobby I could’ve flown to my room because that’s how high I was. I guess I must’ve been wobbling a bit. When Marge saw me she turned up her nose in disgust and told me I was drunk. I grabbed a bottle of rye and made my way to the bed. I almost cried when I saw the bottle was already three-quarters empty.

“That guy gave me the creeps,” she said, wrinkling her upturned nose. “Who is he?”

“Santa Claus,” I said, taking a swig. “Going to be bringing us bag loads of presents. But you’ll only get yours if you’re extra good. What are you going to do to be extra good?”

“You’re stinking drunk!” She reached for the bottle, but I was quicker. “What are trying to do?” I asked her. “Make me spill some? That’s not being extra good.”

“I didn’t come here to lie around this crummy hotel room with you all day,” she said. “That’s all we’ve done and I’m sick of it!”

Not as sick as I was, I could guarantee her that. I took another swallow of rye, hoping it would dull the red-hot poker jabbing around in my stomach.

“I got fired!” she shouted, veins streaking down her neck. It made me kind of sad seeing that, because it made her look so damn worn-out, and she had no right looking that unattractive.

I guess it also made me a little mean. “You can hardly blame them,” I said. “You can’t say you didn’t deserve what you got.”

Her mouth gaped open. The black hole slowly closed and she took a step back. “That’s a pretty rotten joke.”

“What can I say? I’m only as good as my material.”

She studied me quietly and then took a step forward, apprehension pulling at her mouth. “Let’s not fight, Johnny. I’m sick of fighting. I want to do things with you, not just sit here all day and watch you get drunk. I hate this lousy fleabag hotel.”

“Yeah, well,” I said. “Honey, we’ve all got crosses to bear. You’re stuck in a lousy fleabag. And I’m stuck with a lousy fleabag.”

“You dirty drunken—” She pulled back and took a swing at me and then broke down crying. Her face got flabbier and more creased until it was looking worse than a sharpei’s rear. Even though neither of us moved, she seemed to be gliding away from me, her face shrinking to a small white point. And then there was nothing. Even the sounds of her bawling faded away.

* * * * *

I spent the next three days apologizing. She took it quietly, mumbling stuff about it all being forgotten, but making sure I knew how good and sore she was.

It took about all I had keeping her quiet at night, and I just didn’t have anything left to persuade her with during the day. By morning, I couldn’t do much else but spend my time curled on the bed trying to hold my stomach together.

Sometime Thursday afternoon whatever was heating up inside her boiled over. She slapped a bottle out of my hand and stood over me, glaring.

“Aw, Marge,” I said. “Why’d you go and do that? How many times do I gotta say I’m sorry? Come on, be a good little gal and get me that.”

“Lover, it’s time for you to get out of bed. You’re taking me out to dinner tonight. I made the reservations and I don’t want to hear a damn word about it. You better get up and take a shower.”

When a gal’s got murder in her eyes, you listen. As I was closing the door to the shower, she screamed, “And lover, my name’s Margo. M-A-R-G-O! Quit calling me Marge!”

* * * * *

The place Marge dragged me to was this marble mausoleum where you had to tip a half-dozen folks before you even sat down. Once you were seated the show really began; three attendants stood beside your table like propped-up corpses.

One guy seemed to be eyeing our water glasses, and I was pretty sure his job was to keep the water at a proper level. Another seemed to be there to keep our cigarettes lit. The third I wasn’t sure about, but I would’ve guessed if my balls got itchy he would’ve been ready with a finger.

Marge beamed through the dozen long-stemmed roses arranged in the middle of the table. “Isn’t this wonderful?”

“Just great,” I said. “I’m out twenty bucks and I haven’t even eaten anything yet.”

That dimmed her beaming a bit. She said, “I’m sorry about some of the things that were said. I know you haven’t been feeling well and I should’ve been more understanding. Can we be friends again?”

Her voice contained an almost desperate pleading, and it touched me. At least, it loosened me up. “Sure,” I said.

“Isn’t this great? This is supposed to be the best restaurant in Mexico City. I’m so happy we’re finally doing something. Maybe if you’re feeling better we can start doing more things together? Maybe we can lay off the alcohol?”

I looked at her small, pale face. A funny, tough smile was trying to contradict the anxiety in her eyes. I made my mind up about something, or, rather, I decided to quit trying to fight the inevitable. After a while the fighting wears you out and all you can do is step aside and let fate take its course. There was a reason I brought her to Mexico and it was time I admitted it.

“That’d be nice,” I said. “How about tomorrow we rent a jeep and take a ride to the mountains? Do a little sightseeing?”

“You mean it?”

I nodded. “When we get back to the hotel, I’ll get on the phone and make the arrangements.”

For the first time in days a soft easy smile broke out over her face. “Lover,” she whispered, “maybe I’ll let you do a little sightseeing tonight.”

“Sure, honey. We’ll have ourselves a little party.”

The waiter showed up, and while the food was being arranged in front of us I thought about the jeep ride we were going to take. It would be a tragic, senseless accident, one which there could be no explanation for. Looking at Marge I felt sincerely touched, and I was pretty sure her passing was going to leave an emptiness in my life.

Marge was all smiles over the food. “This looks delicious.”

I grunted and took a bite, and was almost floored. A fiery pain shot through me, almost singeing my brain. I stayed in my chair, but just barely. For a second I thought I was going to pass out and then I didn’t know what to think except that I had to get moving. I said something to Marge about finding a bathroom.

As soon as I got to my feet a dull nausea chilled me. I think Marge yelled for me to hurry back before my food got cold, and I mumbled something back to her.

I couldn’t move, at least not right away. My legs were cold dead stumps, as if they were disconnected from the rest of me, and I almost collapsed before I got ten feet from the table. The restaurant staff gave me funny looks as I staggered past them, but none of them got in my way. As I pushed through the door I doubled over. A cabbie looked up from his paper and I whispered something to him.

“Que?” he asked.

“Please,” I gasped. “Take me to a hospital.”

Chapter 21

“So doc, did I drink some bad water?”

He grunted, his face expressionless, and continued poking me. “Lie down on the table please.”

My stomach was feeling better—at least I wasn’t feeling like I was going to drop dead on the spot. I stretched out on the examining table and he jabbed his fingers into my stomach.

“How does that feel?”

“Like you were working me over with a baseball bat.”

“Uh-huh,” he mumbled, and kept with the poking.

“So what do you think it is?” I asked.

“We’ll see. Can you sit up, please?”

I sat up and he started tapping his fingers against my back. He mumbled something in Spanish, and sat down across from me.

“How long have you had this pain?”

“A week, maybe two. Maybe longer.”

“But it has become unbearable the last week?”

I nodded.

“Have you been drinking a lot of alcohol recently?”

“Just a little,” I said. “You know, a nightcap before bed to help me relax.”

“Uh-huh,” he mumbled, keeping his wooden expression intact. “Have you been under a lot of stress lately?”

“I guess I’ve had a pretty tough week.”

“But you’ve come to Mexico City on vacation?”

“Yeah, that was the plan. Come on, doc. What do you think I got?”

He scribbled something into a notebook and then looked up at me. “I need to run some laboratory tests before I can be certain, but I believe you have colitis, an inflammation of the membrane surrounding the colon. I need to take a biopsy of the colon to be sure. I also would like to take blood and urine samples to rule out other possibilities.”

“Wait a second.” I shook my head. Colitis. The sound of the word made my head spin. “You’re not cutting into me and I’m not sticking around for any tests. What do I do to get rid of this?”

He scribbled some more in his notebook. “It could go away with rest and proper diet. No alcohol, and drink plenty of fluids. Depending on the severity, it could require an operation.”

“How did I get it?”

“Hard to say,” he shrugged. “Colitis can be hereditary. There is also some thought that it can be triggered by stress. Usually the type caused by a traumatic episode. I must recommend that you let me perform the tests.”

“Sorry, Doc.” I shook my head. “But thanks for the help.”

“I see.” And for the first time a thin smile cracked his face. “You do not trust Mexican doctors?”

“That’s not it. I—”

“Never mind,” he said, softly. “Let me check that wound.”

He took the bandages off my forehead. “We can leave these scratches uncovered. They’re not infected but scars are going to be left.” His smile stretched out an inch. “You should have had a doctor stitch them for you.”

I was beginning to feel a little antsy. I knew I had to go back to Colorado. Running wasn’t going to work, not if it made me so sick with worry I was going to develop colitis.

“Yeah, sure,” I said. “Anyway, thanks for everything, Doc. How much do I owe you?”

He shrugged. “You won’t accept my advice, why should I accept your money? There’s no charge.”

He turned his back. I started feeling a little hot around the collar and I wanted to get out before the heat spread. “Sure, if that’s the way you feel about it. Well, thanks.”

As I was heading out the door, he spoke. “If the pain doesn’t go away you should see a doctor. Left untreated, you could die.”

No, I thought. Not me, but others were going to.

* * * * *

I went straight to the airport. I had my passport and money on me, and the clothing and other stuff I’d brought along weren’t worth going back to the hotel for.

At the airport, I had a long talk with a ticket agent and finally got myself booked on a flight to Dallas that was leaving within the hour. I was able to board the plane as soon as I got to the gate. After taking my seat, a quiet calm took over me.

Fleeing to Mexico was a challenge to the natural order of things. I had sent everything out of skew—it was like I’d been trying to fly a kite in a storm, and it had left me feeling pulled and twisted from every direction. Now that I’d decided to let go, an inner peace warmed me.

All the worry and ailments I’d suffered were the result of trying to resist the unchangeable. Accepting fate removed the burden from me. I was meant to go back to Denver and take care of things. I understood it and embraced it.

After landing in Dallas, I took the first available flight to Denver, and by morning I was home. A pile of newspapers had collected outside my front door, but I was too tired to deal with them. I headed straight to bed. I think I was asleep before my eyes closed.

* * * * *

The phone woke me. I shielded my eyes from the light and let the phone ring, too tired to reach for it. My answering machine clicked on, but whoever it was must’ve been shy because he hung up. Slowly my eyes adjusted to the light, and I squinted and read my watch. It was nine o’clock in the morning. Twenty-four hours since I had collapsed on the bed.

I laid around for a few minutes, just sort of daydreaming, and then glanced at my watch and saw it was noon. I got up, and headed down to the kitchen. After putting some coffee on, I stepped outside and brought in the newspapers from the front step.

When the coffee finished brewing I poured a cup and sipped it slowly, surprised at how good it felt in my stomach. I guess all I needed was a good twenty-four-hour sleep. During my plane trip, I’d figured how everything was going to work out. How everything was meant to work out.

Glancing through the newspapers I found an article about Craig Singer. He had committed suicide by slashing his wrists. The article hinted about marital problems and despondency over injuries sustained in a fall. I remembered how I’d thought he had way too much blood in his lips. I started laughing as I thought how bleeding to death had solved that problem.

When I was through laughing I found the Sunday issue with my feature. The story had the title, ‘Johnny Lane—The First Case’.

It was about the Walter Murphy shooting—the original write-up I did for the Examiner. They’d included pictures of both Walter Murphy and Rose, and seeing them made me panic. I guess I was afraid if Mary were to see it she’d spot the resemblance between herself and Rose and put two and two together. I took a long look at Rose’s picture and calmed myself down. It was actually a pretty bad shot of her, making her look heavier and shorter than she was in real life. Not only that, but her face was out of focus. Mary wasn’t likely to make a connection from that picture.

I smiled over the scare I’d put myself through. I had a week before my deadline and that was more than enough time for what I had to do.

The phone rang. I answered it and got back only faint static. “Hello?” I tried again. I was about to hang up when an old man’s voice crackled over the line.

“Clem Smalley?”

“Sorry, wrong number.” But I didn’t hang up. I held onto the phone for dear life, listening to my heart do a bongo solo through the silence.

“Sure ain’t no wrong number,” the old man said. “You’re Clem Smalley. Same one from Carson City, Nevada. You be at Charlie’s Silver Dollar Bar in two hours.”

“That’s not possible.”

“It better be possible. For your sake, Clem.”

“Where’s Charlie’s?”

“Don’t play stupid with me. Just make sure you be there.”

“Look,” I said. “Who are you?”

“Don’t worry none about that. I know who you are and that’s all that matters.” The old man coughed, and from the sound of it, spat up some phlegm. “I know all about you.”

“Wait a min—”

The phone went dead.

* * * * *

You’re probably wondering how I knew it was an old man calling me. Well, that’s a reasonable question since it can be pretty hard to judge a person’s age over the phone, but ever since I saw him at the Oklahoma City train station I’d been half expecting him to call. Since I was expecting it, I had no problem recognizing his voice.

Chapter 22

I was born Clem Smalley and raised in Carson City, Nevada. My faithful readers are pretty much ignorant of my humble beginnings, because I guess I don’t like bragging about how with so little I was able to accomplish so much through nothing but plain hard work, dedication, and perspiration. Now Poppa had hurt his back way before I was born and was on disability. And Momma worked as hard as a woman could. But they certainly loved their boy. What they couldn’t give me in material goods, they sure made up for in other ways. I remember one day . . . .

* * * * *

I was about six and my momma was screaming that he had killed me. I tried to cry out to her that I wasn’t dead. My eyes were open but everything was black. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t yell to her that everything was okay. Momma picked me up in her arms and held me tight. She was crying hard, her tears falling hot on my face. Everything was dizzy, suffocating. Then I didn’t remember anything until I woke up in a hospital bed.

The next three days were the happiest of my young life. Momma was with me in the hospital most of the time. They gave me ice cream. It was quiet and peaceful, and people were nice to me. I asked Momma if I could stay there forever and not have to go home.

That made her cry. She told me I’d have to go home when I got better, but she would never let him beat me again. Well, I guess I didn’t really want to stay there. I didn’t like the way the doctors and nurses looked at Momma when she wasn’t noticing, and I didn’t like the things they whispered about her when they thought I was asleep. What happened wasn’t Momma’s fault, and it wasn’t fair of them to say it was.

When Momma took me home he was waiting for us. When I walked by, he kicked at me, calling me a little girl for not being able to take a spanking.

Poppa just didn’t have no use for a son. Momma had obliged him with three daughters before me and that was what he wanted. He could find a use for girls and he was hoping Momma would be able to give him one more. I turned out to be a bitter disappointment, Poppa not being a pervert or anything.

I only remember one of my sisters, and she left us before I was able to talk. I always wondered what happened to them. I’m sure life was as hard for them as it was for me, having to survive on their own at such young ages. Poppa just didn’t leave them any other choice, unless you consider the other way a choice. I often do wonder about them, though.

Poor Momma. She tried to keep her promise. When he started beating me again, Momma would get in the way, blocking the belt strap with her own frail body. While she protected me, I lay there like a stinking coward, screaming at him to stop, screaming that I would kill him. Later, when he was drunk and oblivious to the world, I’d stand over him with his razor. Sometimes I stood there for hours, trying to work up the courage to cut his throat. But my hands would shake and my knees would turn to water and I couldn’t do it.

I wish I had been able to, at least for her sake. Momma wasn’t strong enough to take all those beatings and all that meanness, not with working as hard as she had to. When I was thirteen she died and left me alone with no one to protect me.

In his grief, Poppa started drinking more and it wasn’t long before he had himself a stroke. It left him crippled on his right side, forcing him to use a cane to get around. Since he didn’t have the strength anymore to beat me, he had to focus his meanness in other ways. When I helped him get into the bath or brought him his food he would say pretty nasty things, things a father just shouldn’t say to a son.

“You planning on deserting me like your whore sisters did, you ungrateful little bastard?”

And I would be quiet.

“When your momma was having you, she should have aborted you and flushed you down the toilet. I flush better things than you down the toilet every goddamned day.”

And I wouldn’t say a word. At least not outwardly. Inside I was screaming every obscenity known to man. But it didn’t help a bit.

I tried so hard to make him see I was good, that he could be proud of me. I was doing poorly at school, so according to Poppa I had crap for brains. So I worked as hard as I could and started doing better. According to Poppa I was then nothing more than a stinking no-good cheater.

When I worked six hours after school to help pay for what the welfare checks couldn’t, I was an ungrateful piece of garbage for not being there to wait on him. When I brought home the prettiest girl in school, she was a goddamn whore cunt for being with an ugly worthless bastard like myself. I tell you, some things a man has no right to say to anyone no matter how much he might be hurting. Some things should be made to choke in a man’s throat.

* * * * *

After the stroke, the doctors told him he had to quit drinking, but that was like telling a baby not to drool. He gave me holy hell for not bringing booze back to him. But I wouldn’t do it. He knew he wasn’t supposed to drink and if he wanted to, well, he’d just have to get to a bar himself. So he would curse me like all hell, and get out of his bed, and with his crippled body, struggle the two blocks to the Black Horse Pub, moving like a falling apart wind-up toy.

If I had brought him the alcohol he would never have left his bed. It wasn’t that I enjoyed watching a crippled gimp humiliating himself for a lousy drink. That wasn’t all of it, although I’m sure that’s what he thought. I wanted him out there on the streets.

I was seventeen when he was killed in a hit and run accident. He had gone out late that night and with the money he took from me I knew he wouldn’t be coming back until closing time. Before then I found a car and hot-wired it. I wanted it to look like a bunch of drunken kids who were too sloshed for my poor poppa’s good, so I brought along a half-dozen bottles of booze. After spilling some of the alcohol around and taking a few drinks myself, I drove the car about a block from the pub and waited. I thought of Momma, and I thought of the sisters he stole from me, and my body started shaking worse than the goddamn motor, worse than the times I’d bent over him with his razor.

This time, though, I stood my ground and waited.

Right before it happened, he turned and saw who it was behind the wheel. I could see his face frozen into a ridiculous mask of self-pity. He tried flinging his crippled body away from the car but he didn’t have a chance.

I jammed the gas pedal to the floor and slammed into him, just about tearing his body in half. I backed up and did it again, and then I got out of the car and ran. I kept on running until the pounding in my head died down.

My original plan was to go home and wait for the police to give me the bad news. I would then play like the devastated son, beating my chest in sorrow and wailing worse than any old alley cat. But I couldn’t do it. My nerves were shot. Instead I stole a car and headed out of Carson City as fast as I could. I drove for two days, sobbing like a goddamn baby. At times I was sobbing so hard I couldn’t see where I was going. I’d thought once I’d done it, the sickness that had been choking me inside for so many years would leave.

But it didn’t.

Chapter 23

I was at Charlie’s Silver Dollar Bar in two hours and so was he, but it was a good twenty minutes before he saw me. I wanted a chance to study him and get an understanding of what I was up against.

Charlie’s was the type of dive where drunks and rummies shuffle off to as soon as they wake in the morning. A dank musty-smelling hole where half the customers wore urine-caked pants and had more fleas than your average junkyard dog. The old man seemed right at home.

He was sitting hunched over his table, his throat blown up like a bullfrog’s, his small black eyes bugging out, nervously jerking towards the door. He needed a drink bad, which was giving him the shakes. Whenever the shakes would take him over, he’d wet his lips and start to order something, and then clamp his mouth shut. I guess he thought it’d be better to hold out and try to keep his wits about him. That was a mistake. When you’re as bad off as him you need the alcohol to clear your head.

I’d had enough of looking at him. I approached his table and when he saw me he jerked a little in his chair, and then his thick lips cracked into a smile.

“So,” he said, nodding, “you know me too.”

I knew him alright. Bert Debbles, one of my poppa’s drinking buddies. I knew him when I saw him in Oklahoma City. Of course, if I’d recognized him right away I wouldn’t have offered him my hand, or introduced myself, or told him where I could be found. Instead, I would have walked right out of the train station.

Thinking about him had troubled me that night. During the train ride back to Denver I was worried sick about whether he had recognized me, and then I realized it didn’t matter. It could be taken care of. I sat down across from him and didn’t say a word.

“Clem Smalley,” he croaked. “I knew you as soon as I saw you. You don’t fool me none with this Mister Johnny Lane crap.”

“So you know me.” I shrugged. “What of it?”

“Don’t you wise-ass me!” he yelled, spittle clinging to his chin. “I know who you are and I know what you did!”

“Yeah, go on. Tell me about it, pops.”

“You killed your daddy!”

“What?” I laughed. “You’re senile, old man. Your brain’s gone soft from booze.”

“If it ain’t the truth,” he said, a crafty look playing on his face, “why’d you come here for?”

“Just curious.”

He shook his head. “We all knew you did it, running off the way you did the night your daddy was kilt. What you take us for, a bunch of idjits? Anyways, police back home have a warrant for your arrest. They still have it, too. I checked.” He nodded. “They still looking for you. If I told them where to find you they’d come and get you, don’t you think they wouldn’t! Not after what you done. Run your poor daddy down like a dog in the street!”

“He was worse than any dog!” I growled, shaking my head to keep the redness out. “He got what he deserved!”

“No man deserves to be kilt like that, treated worse than any animal.”

“No? What does a man like him deserve? A man who forces himself on his own daughters, who beats his wife until her heart can’t take anymore. A man who treats his only son like he was a—”

I didn’t finish the sentence. How could I? How could I put it in words?

He stared at me with eyes that were dry and lifeless. “No one saying your daddy was an angel. He had his faults but he shouldn’t been kilt like that.” A contemptuous look deepened his frown. “Anyway, he told me what a no-good little bastard you were. He saw what you really were and that’s how he treated you.”

He shouldn’t have said that, oh brother he shouldn’t have. I smiled—there wasn’t a chance in hell I could’ve kept it off my face.

“What you smiling at, you danged fool? You an idjit also?”

Yeah, old man, I was keeping score. Go ahead, keep it up, it was too late for you anyways.

“No, pops, just amused. What do you want?”

“What I want is to see you hung for what you did to your daddy!” He lowered his eyes. “But I guess that wouldn’t do no good. You the only boy he got, and he was a big enough man to have forgiven you. But you got to pay for it, boy. You gonna pay me for it. Fifty thousand dollars.”

“What if I told you to go to hell?”

“You can tell me that if you want. You can tell me anything as long as you give me the money.”

“Go to hell,” I said. “You’re lucky if I don’t kick you out this door.”

“Wouldn’t surprise me none if you tried,” he said. “Not with all your daddy told me about you being a worthless idjit without the brains to walk and spit at the same time. You try and do a damn fool thing like that and I go back home and tell the police where to find you. Don’t think I won’t!”

“Yeah?” I said. “And you think the police are going to care two bits about it? They probably figured he got what he deserved. They’d probably give me a goddamn medal. Hell, I did the whole state of Nevada a favor.”

I was pretty sure they wouldn’t bother trying to extradite me. I was a minor at the time, and anyway, he was a rotten son of a bitch, and they were probably tickled to see it happen. Hell, how could they care about something like that? Something that happened twenty-five years ago to a man like him?

Still though, it is always on the back of my mind. I think it’s the reason I try to avoid flying, the fear the plane might be forced to land in Nevada and someone recognizing me. And the police are called, and . . . .

Debbles was mulling things over. “Well, even if they don’t, I’d make sure everyone here found out all about it, you can bet on that! Let’s see what happens when people know what you did!”

I knew what would happen. Kissing my business goodbye would be only the start of it. Eddie Braggs would take a long hard look at me, and maybe he’d end up seeing me in a different light. And if that were to happen . . . .

“That’s right.” He gave me a sly look. “You wouldn’t like that none.”

“I can’t give you fifty thousand dollars,” I said. “I can’t give you what I don’t have.”

“You got it. Don’t you forget which one of us is the idjit. You got your own business, and you’re a celebrity, remember?”

I pushed my chair back. “I don’t have that type of money. Sorry, pops. You might as well take your best shot.”

“Sit down!” he ordered. “Quit being stupid!” A helpless look came over his face as he studied me. Finally, his lips quit moving. “Give me thirty thousand dollars then.”

“Uh-huh,” I said sadly. “You’re trying to squeeze blood from the wrong stone.”

“I mean it, damn it! By God, I’ll tell them!”

“Well,” I said. “There’s not much I can do about it. I’d be lucky to come up with ten thousand dollars. Have yourself a nice trip home.”

Stunned, he sat there hunched over, his arms nothing more than withered appendages, his hands bent like bony claws. The sight of him made me laugh like all hell. On the inside. On the outside, I looked as serious as could be, my lips pulled down, frowning. I could’ve agreed to the fifty thousand—I could’ve agreed to a million—but I had to keep him off balance. Make him think he was sweating the money out of me, that I was actually planning on paying him off. Knowing what his real payoff was going to be made me laugh all the harder. On the inside.

“Give me fifteen thousand, then,” he croaked, his face sagging under the weight of his offered compromise.

I gave a concerned look. “I don’t know if I can raise that type of money.”

“You just better!” He waggled a gnarled finger at me. “Don’t think I don’t know how to handle the likes of you! You be here tomorrow at noon with every single penny of it.”

I let out a lungful of air. “I’ll try, but I don’t think I can get fifteen thousand dollars.”

“You just better make sure you do.” His face got a crafty look again. “And you better not be thinking of pulling anything. I arranged it so if anything happens to me, they’ll find out about you.”

“Wait a minute,” I said. “If you’ve already told anyone else about this, the deals off. I’m not about to be shaken down by a parade of boozed-up bums.”

He chuckled. “You’re even stupider than your daddy said you were. You think I go and tell anyone that? But I did take care of things, don’t you think I didn’t. I wrote up all about you, and I left it in a—in a safety deposit box. If anything happens to me, they’ll find out about you alright.”

“Pretty clever.” I nodded, and I was laughing even harder inside. The thought of him spending money on a safety deposit box was too much. Still though, there might be a shade of truth to it.

“Damn right it is!” he agreed. “You just remember you ain’t dealing with a danged fool like yourself. Now git yourself out of my sight. I’m finished with you!”

“How do I contact you if something comes up?”

“You don’t!” he snapped. “You think I tell you that? Now git out and make sure you bring the money.”

I left him sitting there, feeling like he won something. But the game hadn’t even started.

Chapter 24

The next day I rented a car and was parked across the street from Charlie’s Silver Dollar Bar by eleven thirty. There was probably no reason to rent the car—I was sure the old man hadn’t bothered to find out what type I had—but there was no reason to take any chances.

A few minutes before noon I saw him hobbling down the street towards the bar. When he got to the door, he jerked his head around suspiciously and then pushed his way through.

I took out a pair of binoculars and watched him through the storefront window. He was sitting facing the door, hunched forward with his hands gripping the edge of the table for support. I settled back in the car and got myself comfortable for the wait.

After about an hour, he got up and took a few steps towards the door. He hesitated, and then glanced around before sitting back down. That seemed to develop into a ritual he repeated every ten minutes. By two o’clock he was shaking and twitching pretty bad. He broke down then and had himself a drink. After that first drink he had some more.

It was three o’clock before he walked out of the bar. Stepping outside he froze for a moment, uncertainty clouding his face. He seemed to have shrunk since entering the bar, and watching him hobble down the street reminded me of a whipped dog. He had that same beaten look about him.

I put the car in first gear and kept fifty yards behind him. I didn’t have to follow him long—he stepped inside a three-story flophouse only a block from the bar.

I pulled the car over and sprinted to the front door. I stood quietly and listened. He was on the staircase, and I counted his footsteps. Eighteen of them. When the sounds faded, I counted to ten and raced up the stairs. Eighteen steps took me to the third floor. I flattened myself against the wall and peered down the hallway. He was still there, slowly stumbling along. Then he stopped, took a key from his pocket, opened the door he was standing in front of and stepped inside. After the door closed, I walked over to it. Room thirty-nine. I gave the lock a quick once-over. It was a five-buck special; it wouldn’t take more than a screwdriver to get past it.

I could’ve taken care of things then and there, but as I mentioned before there was no reason to take any risks. All I had to do was show a little patience and everything would be just fine. I now knew where to find Bert Debbles. A seven-buck-a-night flophouse, where the drug addicts and bums wouldn’t find anything unusual about a ruckus coming from a neighboring room.

* * * * *

I had myself an early dinner. A full slab of ribs, French fries, and two big pieces of chocolate cake. After that, I sat for a while over a few beers and then had some coffee. I was feeling pretty good. By the time I left the restaurant it was nine o’clock. I headed to a pool hall and played for a few hours, losing a hundred bucks to a seventeen-year-old hustler. That was okay, just a way to kill some time. By the time I got home it was past midnight.

There were about a dozen messages on my answering machine where the caller paused but decided not to say anything. Probably the old man dying to give me a piece of his addled mind. It was funny though, nothing from Mary. She hadn’t tried calling my office either. I guess she must’ve decided to give me the full two weeks before contacting me.

I lay down and waited, and Bert Debbles didn’t disappoint me. Within twenty minutes the phone rang.

I answered it.

“Just who do you think you’re playing with?” he rasped. I could visualize his face, all red and quivering with rage. “You think I’m an idjit, do you? I’m going right back home and see the police about you!”

“Hold on,” I insisted. “I spent all day trying to raise that money and only got home five minutes ago. I asked for a way of getting a hold of you, but you wouldn’t tell me.”

“You got the fifteen thousand dollars?”

“I got a little over eleven thousand. That’s all I could raise.”

“That ain’t good enough!”

“What do you want from me?” I said. “I got all I could out of my house. I hit up everyone I know for loans. There’s nothing else.”

There was a long pause, which he ended by swearing. When he was through, I asked if he wanted me to give him the money now.

“No. Give it to me tomorrow. Same place. Noon. And boy, you better be there!”

“I can’t,” I said. “I have to go out of town tomorrow. We’ll have to make it the next day.”

“Lookie, I ain’t fooling around!”

“Well, old man,” I said, “if I don’t do what I have to, my career’s finished anyways. It wouldn’t matter to me if you sold my life story to the tabloids. The following day, or go to hell.”

There was more silence and then he said I’d better show up the following day, that he wasn’t going to take any more crap from a worthless bastard like myself.

I did have things that needed to be done, but they probably wouldn’t take more than a few hours. I figured it wouldn’t hurt the old man none to let him sweat one more day.

* * * * *

The next morning I called Jerry Bry at his office. When he got on the phone, he asked me to listen carefully and then slammed the receiver down. It was a pretty childish trick and I shook my head sadly thinking about it.

Well, I had to talk to him. I got dressed and headed downtown. I stood across the street from his office building and waited. Around noon he stepped outside. I followed right behind him, and I guess he must’ve had too much on his mind because he didn’t notice me.

I was going to tap him on the shoulder and suggest we find a quiet place to talk, but he saved me the trouble by walking into an alleyway to cut across the block. I followed him into it, and stepped on the heel of his shoe.

“Hey!” he shouted “What the hell—” He turned and saw me.

“Hello, Jerry,” I said. “I tried calling you earlier but I guess we had a bad line.”

“You’re asking for trouble!” He tried to push his way past me but I grabbed him and shoved him against the wall. I then slapped him with the back of my hand. Three times across the face. Hard enough to stun him, but not hard enough to leave any marks.

“That’s not a nice way to talk to a friend,” I said. “How’s the wife?” He looked at me stupidly. “She’s just fine.” A nasty smile slowly twisted his lips. “And how’s that girl, Mary Williams?”

I didn’t say anything. I had his jacket lapel wrapped in my hands. I pushed hard against it.

“You sent her to me,” he said. “What did you expect?”

“Not that. It was a pretty stupid stunt you pulled. I ought to kick your teeth in for it.”

“Hey, look. Get your hands off me!”

I tightened my hold. His smile stayed frozen on his face but started looking a little sick.

“Come on,” he pleaded. “Let go, okay?”

The sight of him was turning my stomach. I let go. He adjusted his jacket. “That was a hot little piece of ass you sent me,” he said, his smirk coming back to his lips. “I’ll play daddy for her any time. I’ll be glad to put her on my knee and spank her whenever she wants. You tell her that.”

“You dirty—”

“Yeah?” he asked. “What are going to do about it? You want to talk to my wife, go right ahead, but I’ll have a talk with my daughter afterwards.”

He must have misunderstood my expression, reading something other than contempt from my face. “How does it feel?” he asked, his voice breaking out into an ugly laugh.

“I won’t have to talk to your wife,” I said. “The police will be doing it for me. Mary wants to file attempted rape charges against you.”

It took several seconds for my statement to register, but when it did, it left his face dull and flabby. “She wouldn’t do something like that,” he said.

“I’m afraid she would. How are you going to explain it to your wife?”

A hurt look played on his mouth. “You better make sure she doesn’t. It will all come out if she does. All of it.”

I clenched my teeth. “You’re going to talk to Mary again. I don’t know what you’re going to say, but whatever it is, it better be good. This time you’re going to convince her you’re her daddy and that you’re just plain confused about what you did.”

I wish it could’ve been that easy, but no amount of convincing would change Mary’s mind. But I sure wished it could be that way. “You’re going to get down on your knees and lick her boots if you have to,” I went on. “For the first goddamn time in your life you’re going to act like a human being. And you better give a damn good performance.”

Bry was accepting my order grimly. “Give me her number and I’ll call her,” he said.

I shook my head. “I’m going to be there when you talk to her. And brother, if you don’t convince her you’ll be crapping out teeth for days.”

I took a step away from him. “I’ll be bringing her over to your house tomorrow night,” I said. “Around eight. It would be a good idea if your wife had plans for then.”

I walked out of the alley leaving him nodding dully.

* * * * *

I spent the rest of the day at the office. It’s funny, but there always seems to be a pile of chores that need to be done. I chipped away at them, and before I knew it the sun had gone down and it was ten o’clock.

Before leaving, I unlocked the bottom drawer of my desk. All folks in my line of work have at least one untraceable gun—they’re goddamned liars if they tell you they don’t. There’s too great a risk you’re going to need one.

Buried in the back of the drawer was a thirty-two caliber pistol. The serial numbers had been filed off, and if the police were able to trace it they wouldn’t find much except that it had been stolen during a burglary. Since then, the gun had passed through three states before finding its way to the back of my desk drawer.

I took out the gun and cleaned it. I then loaded it and put it in my pocket.

Chapter 25

Tuesday was one hell of a day. With all the tragedy and misfortune that occurred, the Lord must’ve taken those twenty-four hours off. And while he was napping or shooting pool or whatever, the Devil jumped in and had his way with things. We were all in his shadow Tuesday.

Tuesday . . . .

I had the alarm set for six thirty and I was grateful for it, because it woke me from the godawfullest dream I’d ever had. In the dream I was standing in front of a mirror and started seeing things out of the corner of my eye. At first it was nothing I could put my finger on, just a sense that something was wrong. There’d be a flash of movement and before I could blink it’d be gone. Whatever it was, I didn’t want to see it. After a while it got to where I was afraid to move my eyes.

A voice started laughing at me. “What’s the matter?” it said. “What you afraid fer? You don’t like seeing the truth, do you son?”

“Wh-Who are you?”

“Who you think I am?” it cackled. “There’s only one person standing in this room, ain’t there? I’m part of you, boy, and don’t think I’m any too happy about it!”

“No!” The word, along with my breath, escaped from me. I shut my eyes tight. “No!”

“No use hiding from it, boy. I’m in you alright, the worse part of me that is. Open yer eyes, you stupid worthless bastard, and see fer yerself.”

I was afraid to, but I opened them—I couldn’t help but open them. Staring back at me in the mirror were those same damn black eyes I knew as a child. It was my reflection but he was part of it, grinning right at me.

“You think I like being in you?” my reflection asked. “I know it was you in that car, don’t fool yerself any about that. You killed me, boy, and I know what you’re planning for my pal Bert, you murdering little bastard!”

“What of it?” I said. “You think the world’s going to shed a tear over Bert Debbles? He’s just a selfish, cold-blooded son of a bitch who’s probably no better than you were. What he’s getting is pure justice.”

“Maybe,” it admitted. “But what about this Jerry Bry fellow? He deserves what he’s going to get?”

“Hell, I certainly hope so, cause I’m looking forward to it.”

“I can see how you would,” it agreed. There was a pause. “But you can’t tell me Mary deserves what you going to do to her. Can you, boy?”

“Look, I have no choice—”

“Making excuses like always. You’re worthless. You just a murdering—”

“Shut up!” I shouted. “You got no right to criticize me, not after what you did to Momma and the rest of us! You killed her.”

“No, son,” and my—his—reflection shook its head. “You were the one who killed her. You knew what I was but you were too much of a coward to use my razor. You didn’t think I knew about that, did you? Well, I knew alright, just as I know if you had any guts yer momma would still be alive.”

I tried turning away. I tried but I was frozen. I couldn’t take my eyes from my—his—face.

“You know that, don’t you boy?” it said. “All I was trying to do was discipline you, but yer whining drove yer poor momma to hysterics. It’s yer fault, boy, and don’t you forget it. Don’t you never forget it. And don’t think I forgive you fer what you done to me.”

“You can’t lay that on me.” I forced myself to laugh. “No, old man. You killed her. Just like you forced yourself on your own daughters, and treated me like I was a piece of—”

“Heh, heh. You can’t blame me fer trying, boy. But about forcing myself on my girls, I won’t deny they gave me some pleasure. But you ain’t—”

“Sh-Shut up!”

“—that innocent yerself, are you boy? You guilty of the same crime, but you got yer excuses, don’t you?”

“Shut up!”

“That’s right,” it snickered. “You were forced to sleep with Mary? There’s no use hiding from the fact I’m in you, boy. You’re your daddy’s son alright.”

I woke up with the alarm clock, my heart racing, and almost fell out of bed running to the bathroom to study myself. I looked long and hard and couldn’t find a trace of him anywhere. It was just one of those damn crazy dreams you have when you’ve got too much on your mind.

I shivered, my body wet and clammy with cold sweat. All at once I broke out laughing. Just a damn crazy dream.

I took a shower, dressed, put my overcoat on, and was out the door by seven. I stopped at a diner and had myself a breakfast of eggs, bacon, sausage, pancakes and potatoes. The waitress seemed surprised at how much I was putting away, and when I asked for another plate of pancakes she shook her head in amazement.

“How can you eat so much and not show it?” she asked.

“You know what they say,” I said between bites. “Breakfast’s the most important meal of the day, and if you got a lot to do you better start it off right.”

“I guess you’re planning on being busy all day long,” she said, laughing. “And probably all night too.”

I wasn’t about to disagree with her. After lingering a little over my third coffee refill, I hit the road, driving towards the mountains. It was almost an hour before I found what I was looking for. Off the side of the road was a large rock, large enough to hide a bus. I maneuvered the car behind it, and then walked back to the road to see how good a job I’d done.

There was no sign of the car. The only way someone would see it was if they left the road and searched for it.

I set off on foot down the mountain, keeping my thumb out. After an hour, a pickup truck stopped and gave me a ride. I explained that my car had broken down and I needed to get to Denver for an important business meeting.

“That’s funny,” the driver said, giving me a puzzled look. “I don’t remember seeing a car broken down on the road.”

I didn’t say anything.

“Well,” he hesitated, “in any case I’d be glad to help you out. I’m going there anyway.”

I settled into the passenger seat. At first my mind just drifted along with the road. Eventually I started thinking about Mary. To be honest, I must’ve known from the start she was my own flesh and blood. Maybe it took a while for me to admit it to myself, but I must have known. That had to be why I was willing to take her case for just about nothing—and fifty dollars a day plus paying for my own expenses is as close to nothing as you can get. No matter how much I’d tried kidding myself, there was only one way to make sure Mary never found out about Rose.

I never had any choice.

My poppa, Walt Murphy, the others—I never had any choice about any of it.

About any of them.

As we drove, my companion couldn’t keep from chattering about this and that, and his small talk pricked me worse than needles. I looked at him and wondered if one more would make any difference. It would be easy enough. If I carried his body a few hundred yards from the road, it would probably be months before they found him. If they ever found him at all.

I gave him a hard look. He was an annoying, dull-eyed man who didn’t know enough to shut up and leave a guy in peace. But I guess I didn’t feel like moving. Even blinking my eyes seemed too big an effort. Both the passenger and driver windows were open, and the wind was hitting me hard in the face. All I wanted to do was sit back and think about Mary.

I closed my eyes and felt like I was falling. For miles and miles. As if I’d jumped from an airplane. And it was a long way before I was going to hit the ground. I couldn’t see it, and I couldn’t see any reason to worry about it. No reason to do anything but sit back and enjoy the ride.

And I had a hell of a time.

Chapter 26

Bert Debbles’ room was more of an oversized closet than anything else, but I guess you can’t expect much for seven bucks a night. A narrow cot was wedged up against a windowless wall. The only other furniture was a small stained wooden chair and a tiny three-drawer dresser. The walls were bare, unless you wanted to count the water stains or the cracks. A single bulb hung from the ceiling.

I had been wrong about the lock, though; you probably could’ve picked up a dozen of them for five dollars. And I was also wrong about needing a screwdriver; a breadstick would’ve done the trick. Anyway, as it was, I had gotten into the room without breaking stride from my walk down the hallway.

I took my overcoat off, folded it on the chair and got to work. Aside from the furniture, there was a quart-sized bottle of gin beside the bed, and dirty clothing scattered about the floor. I went through the dresser drawers and found nothing but a bible and some clothes. Under the bed was a tattered cloth suitcase.

I pulled it out and opened it. Tucked under a pile of socks was an envelope, which had scribbled on the outside—

If anything happens to me give this to the police—Bertram Debbles. I ripped the envelope open and a key fell out.

It was a locker key from the Denver Bus Terminal. No more than what I was expecting. The old man was too greedy to risk sharing his secret with anyone, and was too cheap to spend any money on a real safety deposit box. I knew the old man because I knew my poppa, and there wasn’t much difference between them.

I held the key in my hand, and started laughing. It was just so damn pitiful. A bus terminal locker key was how he’d planned to protect his miserable existence. He should’ve sprung for the real thing.

I wiped the tears from my eyes and sat down. It was twelve thirty, and by now Bert Debbles would be working himself into a fit. He’d be sitting in Charlie’s Silver Dollar Bar, probably facing the door, and thinking every evil thought imaginable about me. He’d be wanting to get up and leave, but too afraid he’d miss me.

I imagined what his face looked like—all chalky white with rage and his eyes dumb with indecision. His jowls were probably quivering—half from indignation and the other half from the shakes that were sure to be running through him. I started laughing again. Well Bert, I thought, just be a little patient and you’ll be finding me. Thinking about what he’d find made me laugh even harder.

The doorknob turned. I wasn’t expecting him to give up on me for another few hours, and wondered how badly I’d misjudged him.

Still, I reached for the bottle of gin. Holding it by the neck, I slapped it against my open palm. It would do for what I had planned. I stood up and forced a smile, all ready to greet Bert Debbles. Except it wasn’t Bert Debbles. No, that would’ve been too damn easy. Fate wasn’t about to be that kind. Standing in the open doorway was Marge.

My head was reeling. “What are you doing—”

“Where is she, you crumb?”

I walked past her and closed the door. “What are you talking about?”

She looked surprised that I was alone. “I thought you had a girl in here.” Standing in the middle of the room, she looked unsure of herself and it made her seem so small. “That was a rotten thing you did to me. Why did you do it, Johnny?”

I had turned away from her and had my forehead resting against the door, trying somehow to keep my head from spinning off my neck. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She laughed. I guess she had to laugh or cry, and she was probably sick of crying. “I waited at the restaurant for three hours. I had to wire my mom for money to pay the hotel bill and get a ticket home.”

I didn’t say anything.

“I don’t know if I can ever forgive you,” she said. “Look at me!”

I faced her. “The hotel didn’t give you my message?”

She shook her head, confused. “What message?”

“I don’t believe this!” I said. “There was an emergency with a case I’m working on and I had to fly home. I left your plane ticket at the front desk. I also paid for the room for the rest of the week and left you spending money. The hotel clerk assured me you’d get my message.”

“No one told me anything. I-I thought—”

“I should’ve known better,” I said, compressing my lips into a tight frown. “I guess I should’ve went back to the restaurant but I had only twenty minutes to catch my plane, and a man’s life was at stake.”

It was a pretty sappy story and you would’ve needed rocks in your head to buy it. Marge certainly wasn’t lacking anything between her ears, but I guess if you want to believe something bad enough you’ll find a way.

“I-I didn’t realize, Johnny. I guess it’s all pretty funny if you think about it, huh?”

She tried smiling, and it was the saddest effort I’d ever seen. “We’ll look back and laugh someday,” I said. “What are you doing here?”

“I was going to your office to see you, and I saw you leaving. I guess I followed you.”

“You just happened to be there when I was leaving?”

“Maybe not,” she smiled, guiltily. “I guess I was waiting across the street. I thought you dumped me in Mexico for another woman and I wanted to see who she was. Don’t be mad at me. I had a right to think like that after what I’d been through.”

“No, honey. I’m not mad and there’s no other woman.” I laughed, and kept it up until my stomach ached. She joined me.

“I stood outside this door for over ten minutes trying to decide what to do,” she said, her laughter giving way to tears. “I was about to walk away, but when I heard you start laughing I was sure you were in here with another woman. I had to open the door.”

“I’m glad you did, honey. It gave us the chance to clear the air.” I don’t know why I was kidding her. I had no choice about what I had to do. I had to take care of Bert Debbles today while he was still in Colorado. Once he was back in Nevada he’d be off-limits. I couldn’t risk going back home to Carson City to deal with him.

I wished Marge had never followed me. I’d have given just about anything to have her still stranded in Mexico. At least she’d be safe. But I guess if she had to have followed me here, I should be thankful she’d opened the door instead of walking away. Otherwise she’d be able to make the connection between me and Bert Debbles when she read about him in the papers tomorrow. Now though, she was not going to have that chance.

Marge took an awkward step towards me. “I’ve been feeling so bad, Johnny. Please hold me.” She buried her head into my chest and started bawling like a baby.

I lifted her head and gave her a long hard kiss. A kiss goodbye. During it she sobbed and laughed and held me as tight as she could.

“I love you, Johnny.”

“I know you do, baby.”

“It probably sounds crazy after all the grief you gave me in Mexico, but I’m miserable without you.”

“It doesn’t sound crazy at all.”

“I don’t want to live without you, Johnny. Let me spend the rest of my life with you. Promise me that, please.”

“You’ve got a promise, baby.”

She buried her head hard into my chest again, and I stood silently holding her, feeling the warmth of her small body. She pulled away from me weakly, and gave me a sad smile. “Let’s get out of here and go someplace nice. Okay, Johnny?”

“Soon. Not right now, baby. Let’s just hold each other a little bit longer.”

She pushed herself back into me. “Johnny, this might sound funny, but when I first came into this room you had such a strange look on your face. Like you were going to kill someone. It scared me.”

“You’re right, baby. It does sound funny.

She chewed on that for a minute. “Johnny?”

“Yes, darling?”

“Is anything wrong?”

“Now why should anything be wrong?”

“I don’t know. It’s just that when I was following you here, you seemed kind of odd. Are you sure you’re not in any trouble?”

“No trouble at all.”

“Why are you wearing those gloves?”

“Well you see, darling,” I said, “I put them on before entering the building so I wouldn’t leave any fingerprints.”

“Come on,” she sort of laughed. “What are you doing here?”

“I have to kill someone. I’m going to bash his brains out with that gin bottle.”

“Quit kidding me. Really, why are you here?”

“Okay, baby,” I said, stepping back. “It’s kind of like this.” I cocked my arm and threw my weight forward, catching her smack in the middle of her face. Her head snapped back and she hit the floor hard. She sat there blinking her eyes stupidly. Somehow she got to her feet and stood wobbling in front of me.

“Sorry, baby,” I said. “But I got to do what I got to do.”

“Joddy,” she said—and I’m not trying to make fun of her. Anyone with a flattened nose and a mouthful of blood would sound like that, and well, that’s the way she sounded and that’s the way I’m telling it. “Please Joddy, I g-gluv you. Dod J-Joddy.”

She took a step towards me. “Oh baby,” I said. “I love you too, honey.” I reached back and gave her an uppercut to the chin, lifting her feet off the ground. Before they came down, I followed up with a one-two combination, catching one eye with a left jab and the other with a haymaker. The haymaker drove her to the floor.

She was lying on her stomach. Somehow she lifted her head. Both her eyes, almost swollen shut, were open to cracks and pleading with me. Her mouth was moving, as if she were trying to say something. I knew what it was—”love you always.” Something inside me must’ve snapped because I started laughing like a crazy man.

“Don’t you never stop.” I bent down over her. “Remember our first night how your neck got so stiff? Let me fix it for you.” I grabbed her head with both hands and twisted, putting my shoulder into it.

CR-RACK

“Sorry darling,” I said, falling down beside her. “Must’ve twisted a little too hard.”

I sat there laughing until I was empty inside, until there was nothing more to let out. Marge didn’t look too good anymore. Her head resembled a battered pumpkin more than anything else. And even though she was on her stomach, she was nearly facing the ceiling.

“You can see them coming and going, can’t you baby?” I stood up and sat on the bed. “I kept my promise. You can’t say you didn’t get to spend the rest of your life with me.”

I talked with her a little longer, explaining how I did the only thing I could to keep my promise. She couldn’t hear me but I was sure she understood. I closed my eyes and tried to think things through.

It was supposed to be just an old gin rummy who got rolled a little too hard for his pocket change. In flophouses like this, broken-down drunks like Bert Debbles regularly get conked over the head for nothing more than a bottle of cheap hooch. The cops wouldn’t be too concerned about it. Just another body for the pauper’s grave, and another drunk off the streets. Bert Debbles wouldn’t be worth their effort.

Marge changed things, though. A beautiful girl like her found dead with Bert Debbles’ corpse would cause a stir.

I tried to think how it could be explained, how it could make sense. I racked my brains, and all I could come up with was it didn’t make any sense at all. I guess there are things in this world that are unexplainable, and her death would be one of them. The cops would have to accept it.

Marge kept me company while I waited for Bert Debbles. It turned out I had him sized up pretty well. At three thirty I heard a key turn in the door. Whoever it was stopped, wondering why the door was already unlocked. That’s right old man, I thought. You must’ve forgot to lock it. Come on in and say hello.

The door opened and Bert Debbles stepped in. I smiled to greet him, swinging the gin bottle against my leg.

Debbles jumped when he saw me, and then his face folded into an ugly frown. “You think I’m afraid of the likes of you? You don’t scare me none you little—” And then he caught sight of Marge.

It took a few seconds for him to comprehend why her head was facing the way it was, and when it hit him his mouth formed a tiny circle and he started making the most godawful noise. Like he was imitating a train.

He turned and headed towards the door, still making his wooing noise. I jumped over Marge’s body and reached past him, shoving the door shut. I spun him around and showed him his gin bottle.

“You shouldn’t be drinking this stuff, old man,” I said. “It will kill you.”

I brought the bottle down against the side of his head and he hit the floor like a sack of guts.

He was still conscious. I prodded him with my boot, and he curled into a ball, his eyes rolling with terror as they stared at me. I crouched next to him and could hear he was still making that wooing noise. It now sounded more like a broken-down garbage disposal than a train. Or maybe it still sounded like a train, but one that was running out of steam.

I started telling him about my poppa. I told him everything, and after a while the two of us started feeling close ourselves. Kind of like father and son. Maybe I got mixed up, and at times confused him for my real poppa. I asked him some awful crazy things, like why he had treated me so poorly, and why couldn’t he have been proud of me. Well, it was only natural, him being so much like Poppa, and anyways, he didn’t complain. Saying all those things out loud made me think about them. And thinking about them—thinking about what I’d suffered through as a child, well, it just didn’t seem possible. At least it didn’t seem possible they could’ve happened to me. Because no one could’ve lived through that and grown up normal. No one could’ve . . . .

The old man closed his eyes tight and moaned like a dog in heat. I stood up and looked down at him.

“What’s the matter, old man?” I asked. “The booze go to your head?”

I smashed his skull in.

After that I unscrewed the top from the gin bottle and took a swallow. I almost spat it out; straight kerosene would’ve tasted better.

“Old man,” I told him. “If I didn’t do it this cow piss of yours would’ve.” I took another swig and put the bottle down. It was supposed to look like a robbery, the way I’d planned it. Marge made it something else, but I couldn’t worry about it now. I emptied out his pockets and came up with twelve crumpled dollars and some loose change. No wonder he was so anxious to wrap things up; another day and he would’ve had to find cheaper lodgings.

Since it was supposed to be a robbery, I emptied Marge’s pocketbook, and along with some money, found an envelope addressed to me. I shoved it into my pocket. I felt kind of uneasy leaving her alone with a man like Bert Debbles, but I didn’t figure any harm could come of it. I moved his leg so it wasn’t touching her.

As I was reaching for my overcoat I noticed my glove was stained with blood. Looking over my clothes I realized I was soaked in it. I guess I’d been aware of the wet stickiness, but thought it was sweat.

I pulled a sheet from the cot and wiped myself off. Providence must’ve been looking out for me; I had worn my overcoat to keep from being recognized. I didn’t count on needing it to hide my soiled clothing.

I put it on and listened by the door and heard only dead silence. I opened the door a crack and made sure the hallway was clear. After nodding farewell to Marge, I out of the room and closed the door behind me. At the end of the hallway was a common bathroom. I gave a quick look inside, saw it was empty and walked in.

I guess I let loose with sort of a giggle when I saw my reflection. I looked like hell. My hair was matted with dirt and sweat, and was pulled every which way like a clown’s wig. Red speckles dotted my face, as if I’d spent the day painting.

I bent over the sink and scrubbed the blood off my face. After wetting my hair, I combed it back. With the overcoat off, it looked like I had slipped and rolled about the floor of a slaughterhouse. With it buttoned up, though, I could’ve been heading to the opera.

Of course, I wasn’t going to any opera. I opened a window and got onto the fire escape, and then climbed down to the alley below.

Chapter 27

I keep a change of clothing in my office. As soon as I got there I used it. I crumpled my soiled clothing into a ball and shoved it behind one of the file cabinets. When I had time I’d dispose of the clothing, but for now it would be safe where it was.

It was six o’clock, and I didn’t have long before I had to find Mary. If I hurried I could grab a quick dinner. I slipped the overcoat back on and put my hand against its inside pocket, feeling the weight of the thirty-two caliber revolver.

* * * * *

Mary was working at the convenience store. From across the street I could see her plainly. She looked a little haggard, which was understandable considering the load she was carrying.

A kid in the store was thumbing through magazines and scratching his armpits. I waited outside until he left—until Mary was alone.

“Hello, Mary,” I said to greet her as I walked into the store.

“Johnny, what are you doing here?”

“I need to talk with you.”

Her brow furrowed and her bottom lip pushed out as she tried to make up her mind about something. I don’t think she ever looked more beautiful.

“I tried calling you but you weren’t in,” she said. “We do need to talk, Johnny, I think—”

“I’ve got good news,” I said, cutting her off. “I found them. Both your momma and daddy.”

“My mother really is alive?”

“That’s right, darling. She is.”

“Tell me all about her.”

“I will. I’ll tell you everything after we get in the car. Why don’t you get your things together.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’ve arranged for you to meet your daddy tonight.”

“But I’m working until midnight.” She shook her head slowly. “I can’t just leave.”

“Sure you can. Lock up, and we’ll leave right now. I don’t see too many folks dying to come in here.”

“I have a responsibility, and—”

“Mary.” I smiled, and it was a smile that would’ve warmed the cockles of any dead man’s heart. “We’ll be back in a few hours. No one will care.”

“But—”

“No, darling,” I said. “This is more important, isn’t it?”

“I guess so.”

“And besides, I’ve been up almost every night beating my head in trying to figure this thing out. You know why?”

She bit her lip, and moved her head slightly from side to side. “Because, darling,” I said, smiling again, “I made you a promise. I don’t want to lose your respect. It would hurt too much.”

“I do respect you.”

“No you don’t.” I laughed softly. “And no one can blame you for that. I screwed up pretty bad before. I want to make it up to you, though.”

“That’s wrong about my not respecting you. I—”

“Darling, what were you needing to talk to me about?”

“Nothing.” She blushed. “It’s not important now.”

“You were going to fire me. I saw it in your eyes when I walked in here. And you’d have had every right in the world.”

“It was only—”

“You don’t have to explain,” I said. “Why don’t we get going?”

She froze, unsure of what to do. Mostly, she wanted to go with me, but part of her was still holding back, clinging to her responsibilities.

“Can’t we go tomorrow?”

“Mary,” I said, “your daddy’s expecting us now.”

Her eyes started misting up. “And my mother?”

“She’s living in Oklahoma City. We’ll see her later, but tonight you get to meet your daddy.”

That did it. I was offering her something she’d been waiting too long for. Whatever fence she was sitting on gave way. “Okay,” she agreed, wiping some wetness from her eyes. “Just give me a minute to lock up.” As she turned away she did a double take.

“Johnny,” she said, “what happened to your forehead?”

“Cut myself shaving. By the way, you’re going to have to drive. My car’s at the mechanics—engine problems. I had to take a taxi here.”

Actually, I had walked—the full five miles from my office. I couldn’t take the chance of a cabbie remembering me. As far as the world was concerned, Mary and I never crossed paths tonight.

“Okay,” she nodded. “I’ll be right with you.”

She locked up the cash register, and did all the other necessary chores before setting the alarm and turning out the lights. I followed her out the door.

“I hope I don’t get fired for this,” she said.

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” I assured her.

We got into her car, a rusted out Chevy Nova almost as old as she was. It took three tries before she got it started, and the sick gurgling it made started me worrying. One thing I hadn’t considered was her car breaking down. If that were to happen I’d be sunk. Everything would blow up in my face. I decided not to worry about it; I had gone too far already.

“Where are we going?” Mary asked.

“Now don’t get upset, but we need to stop off at Jerry Bry’s house first.”

She stared, rigid, gaping at me. “He’s not my father!”

“I know he’s not, but I have to talk with him.”

“I’m not going there! I refuse!”

“You don’t have to see him, darling. You can sit in the car and wait for me, but I need to verify some of my facts. I’m about ninety-nine percent sure I know who your parents are, but I think he can make it a hundred. And I don’t want to risk screwing up again. Trust me on this, please.”

“Johnny, I’m not going in his house!”

“You won’t have to. I only need to talk to him for five minutes and then we’ll go see your real daddy.”

She made a face, but she put the car in gear and pulled away from the curb. I could tell she wasn’t happy with the idea of driving to Bry’s house. Her knuckles were squeezed white from gripping the wheel, and her face looked just as pinched. And she was too mad to talk, at least right away.

After a couple of miles, her body loosened up and she broke into a smile.

“He’s a rotten bastard,” she said. “Could you do me a favor and punch him for me? After you get your information from him, of course.”

I laughed. “For you darling, anything. Where do you want him to get it?”

“Smack in the nose!”

“As good as done.”

She drove for about a minute thinking about it, and then smiled again. A nervous smile. “Johnny,” she said, “I was only kidding. You wouldn’t really do something like that?”

“No,” I said. “I’m afraid not. But I’d sure like to. More than you could guess.” And I would too, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t leave those types of marks. I guess it was tearing me up a little knowing I couldn’t deal with him the way I wanted to. I would have to settle for what I had planned.

“Johnny, tell me about my parents.”

“I will, baby. But after I talk with Bry.”

“Please! I’ll pull over until you tell me!”

“Won’t do you any good. This time there’ll be no screw ups, I promise.”

“But—”

“Please, Mary. It’ll just be a few minutes and then we’ll have a nice long talk. It will all be over soon enough.”

We drove in silence the rest of the way. Mary was busting a gut to ask me questions, but she held them in. I guess she figured it wouldn’t do her any good, and she was right. I wasn’t going to budge. When the time was right I’d tell her everything she needed to know.

We pulled in front of Bry’s house a little after eight. Mary sat rigid in her seat, her eyes staring straight ahead.

“Can you hurry up?” she asked. “I don’t want to be here any longer than I have to.”

“I’ll be as quick as I can. Just relax, okay?”

I gave her a glance before turning away. Her face was wrecked with worry. In the shadow of the car it looked so white. So serious. So fragile.

It tugged at my heart to see her like that. After all, she was my own flesh and blood, and I was proud of her. She was so damn beautiful, so damn determined. There was so damn much life in her.

I took a step towards the car. I decided the hell with it—I’d tell her everything and let the chips fall where they will. Anyway, that’s what I was going to do and I probably would’ve if Bry hadn’t stumbled out of his house.

“Hello, sweetheart!” he shouted as he weaved towards us. He was twenty feet away and I could smell the booze on him.

“Johnny!” Mary screamed, her eyes flooded with murder. “Keep him away from me! I’ll drive away if he tries to come near me!” She turned the engine back on and floored the gas.

Bry waved at us as he came closer. I ran up to meet him.

“I’ve been waiting for you, sweetheart,” he shouted. “Come on—oof.”

I had put my fist in his stomach and the color drained from his face. Before he could get his breath back, I had him by the elbow and was turning him around, walking him towards his house.

“You stupid bastard,” he gasped. “What you do that for?”

“I’ll tell you inside,” I said through clenched teeth. I gave him a push, and he lost his balance and tumbled over. I caught him by his collar and kept him on his feet.

“What you hit me for?” he demanded. “I was just trying to do what you asked. Take your stinking hands off me!”

“Shut up.” I tightened my grip on his collar. “I’ll explain when we get inside. I’m trying to save your goddamn neck.”

We were a few feet from the door. I shoved him inside and followed him, closing the door behind me.

“I oughta beat the crap outa you for doing that to me,” he said, a pout on his lips. Oh brother, I thought, you better flush that look off your face before it’s too late. That damn soft whining whimpering . . . .

“I’m trying to do you a favor.” My voice sounded as if it was coming from an echo chamber. I closed my eyes, trying to shut off the red glaze coating my vision. It didn’t help. I prayed he’d shut up before it was too late. If he’d only keep his mouth shut—if he’d only keep me from seeing his face—there was still a chance. I could still walk out of there. Mary would be okay. If he’d just keep his damn mouth shut and not say a word and—

“What the hell’s going on!” he demanded. “Why’s she sitting out there?” He pushed aside the curtains and peered out. “What a sweet looking girl. I could chew on her like a piece of candy.”

He made a loud smacking noise with his lips. “What flavor candy you think she’d be? I bet she’d be cherry. Or have you been doing this to her?”

Using his thumb and forefinger on one hand and the middle finger of his other, he made an obscene gesture and then broke out laughing.

“Why don’t you go bring her in?” he asked. “You can leave the two of us alone. Maybe she can satisfy my sweet tooth.”

I could still see him through the red haze. His dull fleshy face leering at me. Egging me on. Begging me for it. I took my gun out and showed it to him.

“What’s going on?” he asked uneasily. He took a step away.

“Shut up.” This time the words came out.

“This isn’t funny.”

“No?” I laughed. “I think it’s a gut buster. At least it’s going to be.”

“You’re crazy—what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Me?” I shrugged. “Nothing. I’m not even here. What Mary’s going to do is another story. You two got into a little lover’s spat—over something stupid like what flavor horse manure you are. In a fit of disgust, she shot you dead.”

“Are you nuts? You won’t get away with this.”

“Why not?” I asked. “One of your neighbors will probably remember seeing Mary sitting in a car outside your house. And if she commits suicide later—over remorse for killing her lover—why would anyone argue with it? And hell, what else are the police going to think?”

“My w-wife won’t believe—”

“No? After sending her out of the house? Come on, she’ll know damn well you sent her out so you could screw Mary behind her back.”

I laughed—a long hard one—and it triggered something inside him. His mouth twisted and there it was, his soft whining look.

“You dirty bastard.” The words exploded from him. “Stinking filthy motherscrew—”

I fired, hitting him below the hip. It spun him around like a top and he collapsed on all fours.

For a second, he seemed paralyzed. Then, still on his hands and knees, he tried crawling away. I took aim and fired again, clearing away any hemorrhoids he might’ve had. His knees gave way under him and he fell flat on his stomach.

He tilted his head to me. “Because,” I said. “Because the world’s just not fair. Because after all I’ve done for you, you had to thumb your nose at me—and think you were better than me. Because it was meant to be. It’s payback, and hell, who’s going to complain?”

My second shot must’ve caused some internal damage. His head rolled to the side and he lay limp on the carpeted floor. I stood frozen over him, my hands squeezed into fists. I wanted to tear him apart. I wanted to pull him up and slap him until he was raw and bloody. I wanted to rip his guts out and stomp them down his throat. I wanted to . . . .

I couldn’t do any of it. It had to look like a lover’s quarrel that turned tragic. A tiny thing like Mary couldn’t do the damage I wanted to do, and I knew if I started I wouldn’t be able to stop. I started sobbing because of the unfairness of it all.

I remembered my promise. The one about his neck. I wiped the tears away, and took a step back. I aimed the gun and fired, and his head swung sideways, resting at a funny angle—the type only a broken neck could explain. I turned out the lights before I left.

Mary was looking as if she’d seen a ghost. Her face was whiter than the half moon shining overhead and her eyes were blazing. I climbed in next to her.

“It’s all taken care of,” I said. “I’m a hundred percent sure now.”

“Johnny, what happened in there?”

“What do you mean?”

“I thought I heard noises. Like gun shots.”

I laughed. “The damn dope wouldn’t turn his television set off. He had some cop show on. But he gave me what I needed.”

“Your eyes look red, as if you’ve been crying.”

I laughed again. “Allergies. I got a bad reaction to something in there.”

She took a deep breath and let it out through her nose. “I want to talk to him.”

I was speechless. All I could do was stare at her.

“While I was waiting for you, I did a lot of thinking. I want to know why he tried to—did that to me. Could you go in with me?”

I couldn’t tell if she suspected something or if she genuinely wanted to talk to him. I shook my head. “No, baby. It’s a waste of time. Forget it.”

“Well, anyway,” she mumbled. “I’ll be just a minute.” She started to get out of the car, and I reached for her and held her back.

“You already know the answer, Mary. He’s a sick person. A cold, stinking son of a bitch. You won’t get anything out of talking to him. Let’s go do something positive. Let’s go see your daddy.”

She hesitated, studying me out of the corner of her eye.

I turned my smile up a notch. “He’s not worth the effort. Trust me.” She wavered a little, but sat back and turned the key in the ignition.

I held my breath, waiting to see if it would start. Praying it wouldn’t. Because if it didn’t, I would have to walk away. I would have no choice.

The engine revved right up.

She gave me a weak smile. “I trust you, Johnny.”

We drove for about an hour, with me giving directions. Along the way I told her about her parents. At least for the most part. I left out things she wouldn’t have understood, things that would’ve upset her. I didn’t tell her about Walt Murphy, or about my last visit with Rose. Or that I was her daddy.

After a while I saw what I was looking for. I asked her to pull over. She gave me a puzzled look but didn’t argue. As she was parking the car, I slipped my hand into my overcoat. “Darling,” I said softly, “I wish it didn’t have to be this way.” In the blink of an eye, the gun barrel was up against her temple, and then there was a dull pop—like a champagne cork being released. It all happened so fast, I almost didn’t realize it myself. I’m sure she never knew what hit her.

She was slumped over, her head resting against the door. I took out a handkerchief and wiped off the gun. Still holding the gun with the handkerchief, I pressed it into her right hand, and let it dangle from her fingertips. I gave her a quick kiss on the cheek, and then got out of the car, wiping off any fingerprints I might’ve left.

When the cops found her, they’d have to rule it as a suicide, and when they matched up the gun with the one that killed Jerry Bry, it would all be explained.

I left the road, and walked behind the rock I had her pull up next to. I stood dazed for a second. There was no car behind it.

* * * * *

As I’d mentioned before, my night vision’s poor. I had her stop at the wrong place on the road. Once I realized that, I was okay. I walked— ran—up the road, and after about a mile, found the rock my car was behind.

When I drove down the mountain, my car’s headlights caught Mary’s Chevy, and for an instant, framed her slumped over on her side. She looked so peaceful, like an angel sleeping. It choked me up.

Chapter 28

The next night I had the same sort of dream as before, well similar anyway. I’m studying myself in the mirror again, and my poppa appears. He’s smiling, but it’s not any type of smile I’ve ever seen on him before. It’s filled with warmth.

“I’m proud of you, son,” he says.

“Thanks, Poppa.”

“You did what you had to. You showed courage. I do love you, son. What I said the other day was to help give you strength fer what you needed to do. You understand that, don’t you?”

“Yes, Poppa.”

“But son,” and there was worry in his voice, “there’s still something that needs to be done. You know that, don’t you?”

“I know, Poppa.”

“You can’t afford any unfinished business. You’ve come too far fer that. Just one more thing to do and you’ll be safe.”

“Don’t worry, Poppa. I’ll take care of it.”

“I know you will, son. I am awfully proud of you, boy.”

* * * * *

I woke up wondering about my dream, wondering what it meant. I decided it didn’t mean anything. It was only my subconscious pointing out something I’d overlooked. And it was a good thing it did, because there was no reason to take chances. Not after all I’d done.

* * * * *

That morning I boarded a flight to Oklahoma City. It took time to rent a car and do all the driving I needed to do, but what I came for took less than a half hour. I was back at the airport within three hours, and back home by dinnertime.

Chapter 29

I woke up bright and early the next morning and headed to the Denver Bus Terminal. I found the locker that matched the key I got off Bert Debbles. Inside were newspaper clippings, a copy of a twenty-five-year-old warrant for my arrest and a handwritten letter from Debbles.

I was surprised at how well Debbles had done his homework. Most of the clippings were about my poppa’s death, but he also included one of my Denver Examiner columns. A couple of the clippings had a school photo taken of me when I was seventeen, looking all solemn and gloomy. Looking like someone who was going to be losing his poppa.

Debbles’ letter was scrawled in pencil and detailed his suspicions. I took all of it to the men’s room, set a match to it, and flushed the ashes down the toilet. After washing my hands, I headed back home.

Eddie Braggs was standing in front of my door scowling at the doorbell as he rang it. I parked my car across the street, and walking up behind him, clasped his shoulder.

“They let you out of your cage?” I asked with a grin.

Without turning his head, he peered at me from the corners of his eyes. “You wouldn’t answer your phone,” he complained. “We need to talk.”

“Yeah?” I asked. “What about?”

“Why don’t we go inside?”

“Sure,” I said. “Anything for an old buddy.”

I opened the door and followed him in. After sitting ourselves down his eyes compressed into narrow slits, sizing me up—weighing me on the Eddie Braggs’ scale of guilt. I leaned back in my chair and stretched lazily—the way anyone in my position would—a man without a worry in the world.

I said, “This is a first, having you weight-test my furniture. What’s the special occasion?”

“You knew a Margo Halloran?”

I nodded. “I heard about it on the radio. It’s a shame.”

“How well did you know her?”

“To be honest,” I said, “only in the biblical sense. She picked me up at a bar a few weeks ago and we ended up going off to Mexico together. What a disaster!” I whistled, shaking my head. “I don’t want to talk ill of the dead, but we didn’t have the relaxing trip I’d hoped for. I ended up having to ditch her.”

That took him by surprise. His head jerked up and his eyes opened to their normal shape. “I know,” he admitted, “her mother called the paper and gave us the story.”

“After what happened to her, I feel bad about ditching her.” I let my face fall into a somber frown. “But I just didn’t have any choice. I like a stiff drink as much as the next guy, but I guess she liked it more than the next guy and the guy after him. When we got to Mexico she started going through a bottle a day.”

“That’s why you ditched her?”

“No sir.” I shook my head. “I would’ve put up with that, but when she started bed hopping I had to leave.”

With a snort, Eddie’s scowl disappeared. “When her mother called and told us about how you stranded her daughter in Mexico it gave me a hunch you were involved with her murder.”

“Is that so?”

“Yeah. I don’t know, none of it makes any sense. What the hell was she doing in that room?”

I shrugged.

“And how the hell did you get those scratches?”

“You like them? Almost healed now. I got them working on a missing persons case, and that was before I left for Mexico—you can check over at the Denver airport if you want. The ticket agent recognized me and asked questions about them—I’m sure she’d remember.”

“Never mind.” He waved it away. “I can see they’re a few weeks old. This murder is bugging the hell out of me. There’s something awful damn funny about it. Johnny, I’ve been in this business over twenty-five years and I’ve never seen anything so vicious.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Your paper reported she was beaten pretty bad.”

“That’s not even the half of it. If we printed what really happened, no one would believe it. And if we printed pictures, half this city would be retching their stomachs out. Here, take a look at these.”

He took an envelope from his overcoat, slid from it a stack of photographs and handed them to me. As I looked at them my knees went weak. “Oh God,” I murmured.

“That’s right,” he said sourly. “Whoever did that enjoyed it. I want to get the bastard. I want to get him more than I ever wanted to do anything.”

“You thought I could’ve done this?”

“I don’t know what I thought. I guess I got a little concerned after hearing about your trip to Mexico. And”—he waggled a finger at me— “I don’t think you can blame me. What the hell was she doing in that room?”

One of the pictures was of her while she was still among the living. In it, she’s giving her easy relaxed smile. She’s standing with her shoulders thrown back, and with the sweater she was wearing, she looked like she was about to bust right out of it. It did something to me seeing that picture. Stirred something deep inside. “She was sure something,” I said. “Mind if I keep this one?”

He shrugged. “Okay, why not? She was quite a looker. Did you know she was once a Miss Rocky Mountains runner-up?”

“She never mentioned it.”

“Twelve years ago. With some luck she could’ve been Miss America.”

I couldn’t take my eyes off her picture—the one of her smiling, and knowing damn well what she was doing with her chest. I wanted to, but I couldn’t. “Do the police have anything?”

“Not a thing.”

“No one heard or saw anything?”

“In that neighborhood?” He shook his head grimly. “If anyone did, they’d reach for the nearest bottle and stay blissfully drunk until they forgot about it.”

“What about fingerprints?”

“Not a one,” he said. “Whoever did this wore cloth gardening gloves. They were found in a dumpster behind the building. We’re not going to find out anything from them.”

He shook his head and laughed sourly, his eyes glistening. “We’ll catch the son of a bitch, Johnny. We’ll catch him when we find out what Margo Halloran was doing in that room. Or maybe”—he frowned—”when we find out about the old man.”

“Do you know anything about him?”

“Not much. He moved into the room about a week ago. There was no identification on him. No one seems to remember talking to him. And he had no face left. Just be thankful I didn’t show you any pictures of his corpse.”

“Pretty bad?”

“That’s one way of putting it. Imagine taking a sledgehammer to a watermelon. His head was worse than that.”

“Could it have been a robbery—maybe some doped-up addict who went overboard?”

“Maybe,” he scowled. “But what the hell was Margo Halloran doing there? And what about the gloves? No, this is something else. The kicker is the coroner’s report. Her death was pegged between noon and two o’clock. The old man was killed between three and five. Whoever did this waited at least an hour for the old man after killing Margo Halloran. He made it look like a robbery, but it wasn’t any robbery. He wanted to kill them, either Margo Halloran or the old man. When we find out which, we’ll nail the bastard.”

“I hope so,” I said. “I’m going to look into this and see if I can come up with anything. I owe Marge—Margo at least that.”

We both stood up, and shook hands. Eddie nodded to me. “Don’t worry, Johnny. We’ll get him. I got a hunch it’s only a matter of time.”

I watched him leave, feeling sort of bad for him. He was wasting his time. He’d never find out what Marge was doing in Bert Debbles’ room because it just didn’t make any sense. None at all. And even if he found out who the old man was, it wouldn’t help him any. He’d still have to find out why Bert Debbles came to Denver, and I’d already taken care of that.

So there he was, face up against a stone wall and too damn stupid to know it. It was a hundred miles high and a million miles across and there was no way in hell around it. All he was going to get out of butting his head against it was to knock himself silly. I almost wanted to tell him, to save him the embarrassment, but something he said stuck in my craw. Something I don’t think I could ever forgive him for.

“Whoever did that enjoyed it . . . .”

Maybe I did with Bert Debbles, because after all, it was like a second chance with my poppa—but he should’ve known better than to say that about Marge. No one felt worse about it than me. And I’m sure if Marge could, she’d back me up on that.

I put Marge’s picture away and made myself some coffee. Bringing both the coffee and the last two days’ newspapers over to the sofa, I settled back. Marge’s murder was on the front page, and they’d stuck in a photo of her from the Miss Rocky Mountains contest. In the photo, she’s wearing a one-piece bathing suit and waving and smiling like she’s the only one who knows the joke. Of course she was twelve years younger and a few cases of booze drier, but she didn’t look all that much different. Maybe a little fresher. Maybe a little happier.

I read the article carefully, finding out things about her she never told me. Like what college she went to. And that her daddy died only a few years back. And that she was a regular churchgoer. And that she’d been fired recently from her job as a Sales Manager. I knew she’d been fired, but I didn’t know from what. It’s funny, but you spend as much time with someone as I did with Marge and you find out there’s so little about the person you really knew.

I finished the article and started searching the paper for a story about Mary. I was more than a little surprised there was nothing on the front page. Murder-suicides are a big deal, and this one would be played up for all it was worth. A young pretty thing like Mary messing around with a married middle-aged son of a bitch like Bry. Shooting him dead in his own home. It should have been on the front page. I went through both papers carefully and found nothing. Not a damn single thing.

I went through both papers again, and again after that, and well, after a while I lost count of how many times I went through them. Eventually, though, I understood why there was no mention of Mary or Bry. There was only one way to explain it. Their bodies hadn’t been found yet.

They should have been. Both of them.

Where I left Mary, she was in plain sight from the road. Plenty of folks must have passed her by now. You’d think one of them would have wondered why she was slumped over the way she was. You’d think one of them would have stopped to see if she was okay. You’d think there would be at least one of them who wasn’t a heartless son of a bitch. You’d think so, but I guess that’s expecting too much.

Bry should’ve been found too, as soon as his wife returned home. His stinking corpse was left in the middle of the living room—he should’ve been the first thing she saw. And if she didn’t see him, she should’ve at least tripped over him. She should’ve called the police by now. Unless . . . .

Unless she never returned home. Maybe she finally figured he was cheating on her and left for good. Or maybe she did come back home and panicked when she found the body. Or had a heart attack and dropped dead herself. Or . . . .

Or the hell with it. It wasn’t worth worrying about. Eventually both bodies were going to be found, and when they were, the police would make the connection. They’d find that Mary’s gun was used on Bry. They’d have to figure it was a murder-suicide. As long as they didn’t screw up. As long as it didn’t take them too long to find Bry’s body, because if it took too long there was a chance they’d miss the connection. And that would mean Mary’s suicide wouldn’t make a damn bit of sense.

I started panicking. If the suicide couldn’t be explained, the police wouldn’t be satisfied with it. Maybe they’d start poking around and come up with something crazy. Maybe if they had reason to dig deep enough, they’d find something. I had planned on it being an open and shut case, and because of that I wasn’t as careful as I could have been. There were things they could find out. That I hitchhiked down the mountain. Or that I’d been seen near the convenience store. Or a dozen other things I hadn’t thought of and didn’t bother planning for.

Looking back at it now, I know I was making a mountain out of what wasn’t even half a molehill. But when you’re on edge and things don’t work out as expected your mind starts acting up. Instead of looking at things straight on, you see them from angles that don’t even exist. Before long, you’re talking yourself into possibilities that make no sense at all. And the crazier the idea, the more you start believing it.

That was what was going through my mind. I almost picked up the phone and called the police, thinking I’d leave an anonymous tip about Bry. I almost called them, and brother, if I had it would have been suicide. It would’ve tipped the cops off that it wasn’t the way it appeared.

Well, I had too much sense to call them—even in the condition I was in. But I was too fidgety—too nervous to sit still. I headed off to my office.

Chapter 30

I guess none of you had forgotten about Marge’s letter, the one I took from her purse. Well, I hadn’t forgotten about it either. I had it out on my desk, kind of playing with it, trying to decide what to do. Part of me wanted to throw it away, but I figured if Marge was going to spend the time and effort to write it, the least I could do was read what she had to say. Except there were those red smudges all over the envelope, and I just didn’t know if it would do me any good to read it, and . . . .

I opened it. The letter read:

Johnny,

I cried for two days straight when I realized what you did to me. At first, I wanted to tell you to go to hell, but Johnny, I can’t. I don’t want to. I hurt so bad without you. I’m typing this because when I think about it, I start shaking and I don’t want you laughing at my handwriting.

I don’t care why you did it, Johnny. That’s what I decided. It doesn’t matter. Whatever the reason, I forgive you. I know deep down you didn’t want to hurt me. I know you’re in trouble, and I want to help you. Whatever it is, please trust me and let me help. You don’t have to be afraid to tell me anything. That funny looking man I saw you with in the lobby came by after you left. He was furious. He claimed you owed him twenty-five hundred dollars. Don’t worry about it, Johnny. I took care of it. I had my mother wire me the extra money, and I paid him. You don’t have to worry about him.

I don’t know what else to say, except . . . .

Except three more pages of the same stuff. She ended it by telling me how much I meant to her, and how she’d always be there for me. Well, I guess she exaggerated some because she was no longer around and at that moment I needed her more than I ever needed anything.

Of course, I didn’t have to kill her, at least not when I did. She would have found out about Bert Debbles, but she would have kept quiet about it. I wouldn’t have had to worry about her, at least not right away. Eventually, I’d have had to take care of her, though. Because she would have used the old man as a chain to keep us bound together. She’d use his corpse to beat me down. To keep me in line. To suffocate me. I knew her well enough to know that.

Anyway, I probably would have had to deal with her long before that. Probably even before I’d gotten sick and tired of her. Because she would know about the old man. Even if she kept her mouth shut, she’d still know and no amount of pretending on her part would be able to hide it. She’d start looking at me funny, maybe not so I could notice, but I’d know she’d be doing it. And there would be all those questions just busting to come loose. She’d struggle to keep them in that pretty little head of hers, but they’d come bubbling out of her soon enough, each one of them hitting me like a lead pipe to the gut. And waiting for them would be about as bad.

No, I had no choice with Marge, just like I had no choice with any of it. I didn’t ask Bert Debbles to come to Denver to blackmail me. I didn’t ask Marge to follow me to his room. Or Jerry Bry to thumb his nose at me, or M-Mary to . . . .

I-I did what I had to, just like I always have.

* * * * *

Later that afternoon, a homicide detective came by. He heard the same story from Marge’s mom that Braggs heard, and wanted to ask me about it. I explained to him what happened, and he felt kind of bad, you know, prying into my personal affairs and all. Well, to make sure he understood there were no hurt feelings, I offered him a drink. No, he couldn’t, not while on duty. Well, maybe a wee one, just so he wouldn’t be unsociable. We shared half a bottle together, and by the time he left he had tears in his eyes, seeing how shaken up I was over Marge, and feeling ashamed for bringing it up. I couldn’t blame him, and I told him so. After all, he was only doing his job. Doing what he had to. Like all the rest of us.

* * * * *

I was feeling kind of low. I headed over to the Corner Diner, hoping Carol would be working. It picked me right up when I saw her behind the counter, but I guess she was in a sour mood herself. Instead of joking around with me like she should have, she made some smartass comments back to me. Sh-She even gave me a look, like maybe there was something wrong with me. After I paid the check I picked up every goddamned penny from the counter. She opened her mouth as if she were going to say something about it, but then she looked into my face and knew better.

* * * * *

I woke up in the early morning wondering why it was so quiet. It was the type of quiet you have only when it’s dark and the air is dead still. The type of quiet where you can’t help but hear your blood rushing through your head. It was the type you try not paying attention to.

I laid there, feeling anxious, like a kid waiting to open his Christmas presents, but not knowing what’s in store. Or maybe knowing and dreading it.

I couldn’t figure out why I was so anxious. Or why it was so quiet. I started thinking about Marge, thinking about when she was going to show up next. I laughed, because she was always showing up when I didn’t want her to. Any minute now she was going to be ringing the doorbell, all ready to bust out of her clothing. And well, I’d have no choice but to help her out of it and . . . .

And I remembered about the room—about what happened when Marge went into that room. It didn’t make any sense. Why would a robber have to do that to her? Even if he was doped up, he didn’t have to kill her, at least not like that. Twisting her head around like she was a plastic doll. It was all so senseless, and . . . .

What does a guy have to do to get some sleep around here?

I looked at the clock. Three twenty-one. It hit me that my deadline with Mary was up and she’d be calling me in the morning to find out who her parents were. I hadn’t found them yet, and she’d be furious with me. She’d probably want to fire me on the spot. She’d get so serious, her brow furrowing up, and thinking about it made me smile. She was awful cute when she got upset. It did something to me deep inside when I saw her like that. Just thinking about it made me want to . . . .

It was so damn quiet. Three twenty-three. There was something about Mary, what was it? She—she’d committed suicide, that was it. Right after she’d visited Jerry Bry. Fired three bullets into him, leaving him bleeding to death on his own floor. Well, you couldn’t blame her. Still, I couldn’t figure what she saw in him in the first place. She should have known better than to get involved with him. He just wasn’t worth it. If only I could have made her see that. If only . . . .

Three twenty-four. It was too damn quiet. Too quiet to breathe . . . too quiet to keep from thinking. Oh Jesus, too damn quiet to keep from remembering all of it. From remembering all of them. It surprised me when I counted them, because there were so many . . . .

Three twenty-five.

Hours before the sun was going to come out . . . .

The hell with it, the hell with all of it. As long as I had a full bottle of rye what difference did any of it make?

Chapter 31

My faithful readers.

You probably thought I was having some kind of breakdown back there, right? Well, to put your minds at ease, I wasn’t. It was only natural to have trouble sleeping after all the tragic losses I had suffered. Not only did I lose a woman I cared deeply about—a woman who I had planned on marrying someday—but I lost a daughter. And even crueler—a daughter I had only recently discovered. As quickly as Mary had come into my life, she was gone. It didn’t seem fair. There was so much I wanted for her, and well, losing her would have shaken anyone up.

When I went to Oklahoma City, I told Rose about her. I thought it would be better if I told Rose personally, you know, try and lessen the blow. Give her a shoulder to cry on. It was a good thing I did, because Rose took the news awful hard and she sure needed my shoulder. Still, it’s a tough thing to take, and when I left she was all choked up about it. Ha, ha! Choked up pretty bad. Get it?

I guess that explains it as well as anything.

* * * * *

I didn’t really sleep much the next night either. After a while I turned the light on. It was four in the morning. I put on some clothes, got in my car and drove towards the city. Towards East Colfax. It was dead quiet, desolate, the air thick. The buildings and streets looked so damn filthy. Small black shapes scurried about the garbage cans. They were noiseless. Not much more than shadows. When I got to East Colfax I drove down each side street, each alleyway. All the peep shows and strip clubs and bars were closed. All had their entrances locked up with iron gratings.

I don’t know how I knew she’d be there—it was just kind of a funny feeling I had—but I found Debra Singer curled up in one of the alleyways.

All she had on was a halter-top and a trashy pair of shorts that only covered about an inch of leg. When I woke her she looked up, bleary-eyed, drugged, her skin kind of yellowish. She looked thinner than any time before. Not much more than a skeleton. When she recognized me she started saying some pretty awful stuff. Things that made my skin crawl. Then she broke into a hysterical mix of laughing and giggling. She told me it was my fault her father was dead, if I had left her alone none of it would’ve happened. Her mother wouldn’t hate her so much.

I tried to help her up so I could get her into my car, but she started grabbing at me, whispering about all the different ways I could screw her and how she would let me do it for free since I was such an old friend of hers. It made me sick listening to her. I tried to get her to stop but she just kept laughing and whispering and smirking. And she kept struggling to take off her clothes. And she kept grabbing at me.

She was completely lost. I realized there was no other way to help her. As weak and frail as she was it was no harder than cracking a walnut.

* * * * *

The next day it took me almost all morning to get ready. As shaky as I felt, I figured I had to start getting back to a normal existence. I stopped off on my way to work and had a small bite to eat. I could barely keep the food down. By the time I got to the office it was past noon. At first all I could do was sit in my chair and stare at things. Eventually I forced myself to pick up a case report and do some real work. After filing away a couple of cases I started feeling better, like things were getting back to normal.

The door to my office swung open. I put down what I was working on as Eddie Braggs stormed in, his neck thrust out like a pit bull smelling blood.

“Don’t bother knocking. Just come right in,” I murmured. He grunted and sat down across from me.

“Sure, why not have a seat?” I said. “Here for a social visit, huh?”

“Not exactly.”

“No?” I let my forehead wrinkle. “What did you come here for?”

“We’ll get to that in a minute. I ran into an old friend of yours.” He looked away, like he wasn’t paying any attention to me. His mouth opened and the name “Bertram Debbles” rolled slowly off his tongue. Then his eyes jerked towards me, and I just about crapped in my pants trying to keep from laughing. It was just too damn sloppy, too damn childish. I could see it coming way too early.

“Bertram Debbles?” I said, shaking my head. “I’m sorry, but I can’t quite place him.”

“Why don’t you give it a little more thought. See if anything comes up.” I pretended to think some more. I shrugged. “I don’t think I ever heard that name before. Who is he?”

Eddie was scowling, more at himself than anything else. Maybe he realized what a dumbass trick he had tried. “The old man found with Margo Halloran.”

“Why in the world would I have heard of him?”

His face went blank, like a television set being switched off. It was his turn now to act dumb, except it was no act. He looked awful uncomfortable, and then broke out chuckling. “I can’t figure it out. I guess there’s no reason you should.”

“I have to agree with you there. How’d you find out who he was?”

“His fingerprints were matched by the FBI computer system. Back in the seventies he went away for eight years for kidnapping. He turned out to be a real sweetheart of a guy. How about uncorking your bottle?”

I poured him the last of the rye, and tossed the empty bottle into the trash. As he sipped his drink, he told me what had been found out about Debbles. They knew he was from Carson City, Nevada, but they didn’t know what he was doing in Denver, or if there was any connection between him and Marge. They still didn’t have much of anything. There was really nothing to get.

“So you don’t know if he has any family or friends here?”

“He wasn’t the type to have many friends. The only family he had was a daughter, but she’s living in Miami. She didn’t have any idea why he’d come to Denver, nor did she care.”

“I take it they weren’t close?”

“She had only seen him a couple of times over the last twenty years, and that was only so he could try to get money out of her. She seemed relieved to hear about what happened.”

Yeah, I could see that. I remembered little Ginny Debbles. She went through pretty much the same as I did growing up. A cute little thing with the most godawful distant eyes. Like nothing more could touch her. It gave me a warm feeling to know she’d been made happier.

“Well,” I said, “I guess I should be getting back to work. Stop by anytime.” I reached over, extending my hand to him.

He didn’t budge. “I almost forgot what I came here for. What can you tell me about Mary Williams?”

“She’s a client of mine. Why?”

“Have you heard from her recently?”

“Not for a couple of weeks. What’s going on?”

“Not much. Except she tried to commit suicide a few days ago. She was found pulled over on Mountainview Road with a hole in her head.”

“I didn’t know. I haven’t seen anything in the papers about her.”

He stopped himself cold, studying me. “You’ve been looking for it, though,” he said. “Haven’t you?”

“No, th-that’s not it at all. Look—” I could feel a hotness spreading through my throat, making me dizzy. “I’m getting sick of your attitude. First, you come into my home and accuse me of having something to do with Margo’s death, and now this.” I stood up, my hands balling into fists. “You got anything else to ask me?”

He chuckled, his eyes sparkling. “Take a deep breath and calm down. No one’s accusing you of anything. I’m just kidding around, ribbing you a little. You’ve got yourself a quick temper, don’t you?”

I sat back down, hoping the redness wouldn’t come. Afraid of what would happen if it did. “I’m sorry,” I muttered. “She was a sweet kid. I-I can’t believe she’d do a thing like that. I guess it hit me pretty hard. You’re sure it was her?”

“Yeah. Why do you think she did it?”

I shook my head. “I don’t know, Eddie. I can’t think of anything.” And I couldn’t. She should never have gotten involved with Jerry Bry. She should have known better. “She was a hell of a sweet kid.”

“You know something that keeps bothering me?” I didn’t say anything. He didn’t wait for me to.

“You were involved with both Margo Halloran and Mary Williams. I keep asking myself, what would be the odds of that? A woman is beaten to death and another is shot in the head. And Johnny Lane knows them both. I find that a damn funny coincidence.”

It wasn’t funny enough. Neither of us was laughing. I stared at him. He returned my stare, his eyes narrowing. I had to pull my eyes away from him.

“You want to say something, Johnny?”

“I guess so. I-I c-can’t lie about it anymore.”

“Yes, Johnny?”

“I guess the truth has to come out sometime. Oh, God.”

“It’s better to get it over with. You’ll feel better afterwards.”

“Maybe you’re right. Anyways, anything’s better than what I’m going through now.”

“Go on.”

“I had her hypnotized, and ordered her to shoot herself in the head. You see, I was stuck. I couldn’t figure out how to solve the case she’d hired me for and I didn’t want to have to return her money. I never had an unhappy client before, and I didn’t know what else to do.”

I broke out laughing. And, Lord, he just sat there with his mouth hung open, looking like the biggest sap since the first man walked on his own two feet and tripped right into a pile of prehistoric crap.

“I’m sorry,” I said, wiping the tears from my eyes. “But what the hell did you expect?”

“I was just kidding you,” he protested, his face growing beet red. “Anyway, you have to play out your hunches, right?”

“Only if they make some sort of sense,” I said, shaking my head sadly. “I got to tell you, Eddie, I’m embarrassed for you. I never knew you to act like this, flying off halfcocked on this type of nonsense. I just don’t know. Maybe you need some time off.”

“I told you I was just kidding around. If I believed any of it, you’d have read about it already in the Examiner.” He gave me a cold stare. “You have to admit, though, it’s an awful funny coincidence.”

“It’s a coincidence, alright,” I conceded. “But that’s all it is. That’s just the way this world of ours works. On your way out, watch your step. Be careful you don’t trip and break your neck.”

He glowered at me. “I was just having a little fun with you.”

“I know,” I said. “It was a barrel of laughs. I’ll be seeing you around.”

He pulled himself out of his chair, still glowering. When he got to the door, he turned back to me. “I’m sending out a reporter to Carson City to see if we can find out anything about Bertram Debbles. If you want to go with him, I’ll have the paper pick up your expenses.”

“I don’t know,” I answered slowly. “To be honest, I’m getting sick of your hunches. Anyway, if your man got a hangnail or something while I was with him, I’d hate to think what I’d be made to look like by your paper. Don’t slam the door too hard behind you.”

He chuckled softly. “I’ll be seeing you, Johnny.” I didn’t even hear him close the door.

I was puzzled by the way he acted. There was no reason for him to have those suspicions about me. Well, he’d been put in his place and made to see he was acting like a danged idji—damned idiot. Still, there was something behind it. And why did he say Mary “tried to commit suicide”? That was an awful funny way of putting it. She didn’t just try—I SAW THE HOLE IN HER HEAD, FOR CHRIST’S SAKE!

Someone was banging on the office door. Eddie must have come up with another needle or two that he wanted to shove into me. Well, let him—a hell of a lot of good it was going to do him. I opened the door and saw Max Roth grinning from ear to ear.

“Sorry, Max,” I mumbled. “Nothing’s come up yet. I’ll call you as soon as something does.”

“That’s okay,” he said. He moved his body so it blocked the door. “Mind if I come in?”

“No, not at all,” I stepped aside and let him through. “How are things going for you?”

“I can’t complain.” He sat down, still grinning.

“I’m glad to hear it. How’s the wife?”

“Terrific.” He beamed. “She’s been feeling great lately. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her happier, and it’s really—”

“Yeah, well, I’m happy for you, Max. And how about your boys, they causing too many problems for you?”

“Not at all. I’m so proud of those boys, Johnny. Stevie just made his football team, and Ben is an awfully good kid. You ought to come over sometime and see them. The whole family would like it. Anytime you want, Johnny.”

“I’d sure like to, but—” But why the hell was he grinning? “But I just don’t have time right now. I appreciate the offer, though.”

“Why don’t we set a date? How’s next Friday?”

“We’ll see,” I muttered. A dull throbbing started in my temples. There was a reason he was grinning like that. What the hell was it? “What do you want to talk about?”

“One of my cases—”

“That’s good,” I nodded. “See what happens when you listen to me? You take a little responsibility for yourself, and everything works out fine. So you need some help on it?”

“Well, sort of.”

“ Be glad to help,” I said. “It’s good seeing you standing on your own two feet.”

“Thanks. It’s not exactly help I need. I just need some information.”

“Yeah?” I asked, puzzled.

“Mary Williams hired me to find her parents.”

The other shoe dropped. So that was why he was grinning like a bastard. A sneaky, underhanded bastard. He had gone behind my back and talked Mary into hiring him. She was going to fire me—why shouldn’t she if she already hired another detective? And . . . .

And if I was going to start looking for coincidences, I had an awful big one right under my nose. There was a reason Eddie was acting the way he was. There was a reason the two of them came to my office, one right after the other. Someone had shaken a hornet’s nest and tossed it down Eddie’s pants. And the son of a bitch was sitting across from me, grinning like there was no tomorrow.

“So that’s it, huh?” I asked.

“So that’s what?” he asked right back, playing dumb.

“You went behind my back and . . . .” And if he didn’t wipe that grin off his face I was going to do it for him!

“I still don’t understand what you’re talking about,” he said, still playing dumb, still grinning from ear to ear.

“I think you do. I’m disappointed in you, Max. I thought we were friends. I thought you appreciated all I’ve done for you, making you just about a partner and all. But, well, if you’re going to show it by sneaking behind my back, well, I’m just disappointed.”

He shrugged. “I don’t know what to say.”

“I don’t suppose there’s much you could say, after what you’ve done.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way, Johnny. I didn’t sneak behind your back, though. Mary wasn’t happy with the way you were doing the job so she hired me.”

“I got to disagree with you.” I stared at him, my eyes starting to water from the unfairness of it. From the underhandedness and disloyalty and treachery. I turned away from him, choking back the pain. “I don’t think we can do business anymore. I think you better leave while you still can.”

“If that’s the way you feel, okay. I still need to talk with you.”

“About what?”

“I’d like to know what you found out about Mary’s case. I’m still working for her, and maybe you have some information that can help me.”

I shook my head. “Max,” I said, sadly. “You shouldn’t have treated me like that, because you didn’t get anything from it. Or maybe you got exactly what you deserved. You don’t have a case anymore. Your client’s dead.”

“Is that so?”

“She committed suicide. She put a gun to her head and pulled the trigger. Eddie Braggs, the editor at the Examiner, just told me.”

“I didn’t know she was dead, though,” he said. “I just came back from Denver Memorial and she was doing fine. I think you must have misunderstood.”

I sat back in my chair. A coolness made me lightheaded. “She’s in a coma,” he said, pursing his lips. “But the doctors think she’ll be coming out of it any day now. It’s remarkable, it really is, Johnny. She was shot in the head, right by the temple, and the doctors think she’ll make a full recovery. She’ll be able to tell us what happened.”

I could hardly believe it. It did something to me—took kind of a weight off my heart. Because, after all, she was my own flesh and blood, and she was going to have a second chance. I was so choked up hearing it, I almost started bawling. “That’s wonderful,” I gushed, fighting to keep the tears held back. “She’s such a sweet kid. I hated to think of her dead.”

He stopped grinning, completely. There was something in the way he was looking at me, like he was disappointed. Disappointed that I’d feel glad for Mary. That I’d want her to be okay. But, how could she be? I saw the hole in her head. I saw her brains leaking from it. At least, I was pretty sure I did.

Anyway, having Max look at me that way made me sore. I realized why he’d been grinning before. I understood what he was trying to do. I felt the blood pushing into my head. I could feel the hotness of it. I shoved my hands in my pockets, hoping they’d stay there. Hoping I could keep from tearing that heartless son of a bitch apart.

“She’ll be okay.” He nodded, still staring at me. “The doctors think she’ll be coming out of the coma any time now. Well, I—”

“What did you come here for?”

He tried bringing back his grin, but couldn’t. “I-I th-thought you could help me. According to her adoption records, she came from an Oklahoma City hospital. Mary told me you went out there and didn’t find anything?”

“Yes sir,” I said. “Why don’t you give it a try and see if you have any better luck.”

I almost laughed out loud thinking about it, because there was nothing for him to find. Even if he met up with Rose, she wasn’t going to say anything to him. How could she? She’d have a tough time saying much of anything the way her tongue had swollen up. When I left her, it was thicker than one of those store-bought salamis. Anyway, he’d have to dig her up to find her, and six feet is a lot of digging.

“I guess I’ll have to,” he muttered. “I should probably wait until I can talk to her before going. I don’t know if it would be right charging up expenses otherwise.”

“I guess that’s reasonable.” I could see how he’d feel that way. If she didn’t pull through, he’d have to eat the expenses himself.

He tried smiling. “There’s really no reason for you to be mad at me, Johnny. Anyone else would’ve done the same.”

“I don’t know if I see it that way,” I said. “You let me down, Max. I really don’t see how I could forgive you. But it’s nice to hear you’re able to get cases on your own. You know you’re not going to get any more from me.”

“Johnny, I’m sorry, I’d be will—”

“Don’t even bother saying it,” I cut him off. “Have yourself a nice life. Say hello to the wife and boys for me.”

He stood up, holding his stomach and looking like he was going to let out with a belch. “Well, er . . . .” He started to reach out his hand to me, had enough sense to realize how ridiculous it looked, and pulled his hand back.

I turned away from him and started studying an old case report. I heard a loud belching noise, and then the door closed shut. I put the report down and tried to think things through.

It didn’t make any sense for Mary to be alive. I saw what the bullet did to her. I saw the hole in her skull. I saw her brains. She shouldn’t have been able to survive that. But, well, the world’s an awful funny place. Things just don’t always make sense. Anyway, Mary was alive. When I first heard the news, I hadn’t realized what it meant. I hadn’t realized what I was going to have to do.

Of course it’s possible she wouldn’t remember a thing when she came out of her coma, but how could I risk it? What if she remembered everything? Even if I fled to South America, I would have to live knowing she knew and I just didn’t see how I could do that. I couldn’t live with my only daughter thinking ill of me. Thinking I’d try to hurt her.

Oh Lord, I knew what I had to do—and it was so hard killing her the first time. Why are you making me do it again?

Chapter 32

When I called Denver Memorial to find out which room Mary was in, the receptionist seemed taken aback, as if I was asking something unusual. She left me hanging for five minutes before she returned and gave me the room number. Well, there was nothing unusual about my call (but why did she sound so nervous?). If you want to send someone flowers, you want to know what room to send them to, right? (If your only daughter’s lying critically wounded in a hospital, wouldn’t you at least send flowers?) Anyway, I had to find out her room number and I couldn’t go there and ask.

I didn’t want to head over to the hospital right away. I wasn’t ready yet, so to kill time I walked over to the Corner Diner. Before going in, I peered through the window and saw that Carol was working the counter. I walked in and gave her a wink.

She tried smiling, but couldn’t hold onto it. She came over and gave me a timid look. “Hi there, Johnny. I want to apologize for some of the things I said the other day.”

“I guess I should too,” I said. “Why don’t we just forget it?”

She dawdled with her dishrag, spending more time than she needed mopping up in front of me. “You know”—she hesitated—”you take me for granted.”

“I guess sometimes I do. I apologize for that too.”

“You always come in here expecting me to cheer you up.”

“You almost always do a good job of it.”

“I don’t mind doing it, Johnny. I like making a fuss over you. Sometimes though, I wish you’d feel a little more about me like I feel about you.”

I gave her a slow look, up and down. Carol was nothing to sneeze at. A cute little thing, all fit snug and tight into her size four uniform. She was blushing a bright red, which offset her blue eyes and blond bobbed hair nicely. Looking at her made me smile, my first genuine smile in days.

“You want to make a guess how I feel about you?”

She pouted. “You always treat me like I’m your sister!”

“It could be that I’m just shy.” Or that I really did like her and was afraid it would end up the way it always ends up. The way it always has to end up.

“I never took you as the shy type.”

She was still blushing and it still looked nice on her. I wondered how bright she’d blush if we were alone together. Or whether she would be blushing all over her body. We chatted some more, and I asked what time she got off. Well, not until eleven. Did she have any plans? Not really, just going on home to bed. Would she like to go out for a drink? Well . . . sure!

We arranged for me to pick her up after work. I held her hand while she was standing across from me. It was really just a school kid type of thing to do, but it felt nice. It made me start thinking that maybe this time could be different. And it was funny, but during it all I had forgotten about Mary. About what needed to be done. And then I remembered.

“Ow!” She tried to jerk her hand away.

I stared up at her dumbly, and then realized I had her hand in mine. And my knuckles were squeezed white. I let go.

“I didn’t want to hurt you,” I tried explaining, the words rushing out of me. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t help it. Please believe me.” And then I stared up, confused, because it took me a while before I realized she wasn’t Mary.

“I guess I’m okay,” She had her hand up against her mouth, sucking where I’d hurt her. “You just surprised me. What happened?”

“I don’t know.” I shook my head. “I started thinking about a case that I’ve been struggling with. I guess sometimes I get too caught up in my work.”

She reached over and rested her hand on mine, giving me a little squeeze. And then she gave me one of the prettiest smiles I ever saw. “I’ll just have to keep your mind off work then.”

We talked some more and she made sure I knew that the incident was forgotten. Hell, as far as she was concerned, it never happened. I didn’t want to leave her, but I had no choice. I told her I’d be back later to pick her up, and she brushed her lips against my cheek before she turned away, blushing.

I was whistling to myself when I got in my car. She’d had her chance to stick the old needle in and she passed it up. It looked like my string of hard luck with the gals was changing. I guess that’s all I ever had before. I guess I always ended up with the wrong type—the type who never left me any choice about how things had to be.

None of the others could ever pass up the needle. That’s why it always ended up the way it did. They couldn’t keep from saying those things to me. Or looking at me that way. You must know that look. The one where they drop their jaw, and as they’re gaping at you, their lips twist just enough into a sneer to make you feel lower than a chicken turd. And you’d do anything to stop it.

Some of you are probably thinking that Marge never did those things. Well, maybe not, but if I’d given her enough time, she would’ve been like all the rest. Even my own daughter . . . .

Mary gave me that look the split second before I pulled the trigger. I could still see it. I-I couldn’t keep from seeing it.

I stopped the car. I had to do something before the shaking made me crash. I went into a bar across the street, hoping a few drinks would calm me down and stop the pounding in my head.

I tried thinking about Max and Eddie (anything to block out Mary and that look). I tried figuring why they’d acted so screwy. I guess I understood. Eddie probably was just ribbing me more than anything else. Max spoon-fed him a bunch of stories, and well, maybe none of them made any sense but that wouldn’t stop Eddie from jerking me around. He had nothing to lose, and besides, he was just having fun.

Max was about as easy to understand. He must have figured I was stringing him along. He wanted to get back at me any way he could. It didn’t have to make any sense—he’d find a way of believing it. That was all of it.

The drinks helped clear my head. I paid the bartender and headed out. I drove to the hospital and parked a block away.

* * * * *

When I got to Mary’s room, I opened the door and peered in. It was dark, but I could make out her outline. She was hooked up to about a half-dozen machines, all of them blinking and humming along. I stepped into the room, closing the door quickly behind me. I left the lights off.

Seeing her lying there did something to me. It brought back all those memories I’d had as a child when I was in the hospital. About being safe. And I knew right then I couldn’t hurt her. I don’t know why they had to say I was going to smother her, because I wasn’t. I was just going to kiss her, and I guess my hands must’ve slipped and maybe it looked like I was grabbing that pillow, but all I was doing was reaching down to kiss her goodbye when the lights turned on.

I froze. There was no one in the bed. What I thought was Mary was only some pillows stuck under a blanket. I spun around and saw Max Roth and Bill Haggerty standing by the doorway. Max was grinning like a cat, and Bill had his service revolver out, pointed at me.

Max said, “Hello, Johnny. I don’t know if you’ve met Bill Haggerty. He’s been working out of homicide.”

Bill shook his head grimly. “That’s all right, we know each other.”

“It looks like you’re too late, Johnny,” Max said. “She’s already dead. She died after you blew her brains out. When she hired me she told me about Jerry Bry.”

All I could do was stare.

“When the police found Mary,” he explained, “they found my business card in her pocketbook. After they talked with me, I went straight to Eddie Braggs. I told him everything. About how you told Mary that Jerry Bry was her father, about how he tried raping her, and how you blackmail your clients—”

“That’s a damn lie!”

“Maybe it is.” He stroked his chin, thinking. “In any case, how you blackmail their spouses.”

“I have to disagree with you—”

“Okay.” He shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. What does matter is when I was talking with Eddie, he got a story over the wire about Jerry Bry. About how the gun was the same one that killed Mary. At first I thought maybe it was a murder-suicide. Maybe she tried seeing Bry again and things got out of hand. But Mary wouldn’t have done that. She had her head screwed on straighter than any kid I ever met. She knew Bry wasn’t her father and she didn’t care about him. She wouldn’t have gone to see him. And there was no reason for her to have a gun.”

He waited for me to say something, but I couldn’t. There had to be an explanation. I just had to think hard enough . . . .

He got tired of waiting. “Eddie got on the phone and called Joyce Bry and guess what? Joyce was a regular client of yours. Always hiring you to find out if her husband was cheating on her. And he never did, did he, Johnny?”

I shook my head slowly. I couldn’t keep from doing it.

“If you ask me,” he continued, “it sounded funny, you thinking Bry was her father, but you always telling Joyce Bry that her husband was clean as a whistle. Eddie Braggs found it all pretty funny too. He agreed to hold the stories for a few days. I guess you don’t read any other paper except the Examiner. If you did you’d know Mary was dead. You wouldn’t have come here, would you? Bill, would you mind if I use the phone?”

Bill shook his head. Max got on the phone and he looked happier than a kid locked in a candy store. “That’s right, happened just as we planned . . . .Yep, he’s right here, looking pretty sick if you ask me . . . . So you’re going to run the headline? . . . . Mind if I show it to him? . . . . Talk to you later, Eddie.”

He hung up the phone. He reached into his jacket pocket and unfolded part of a newspaper. “I’ve got an advance copy of tomorrow’s Examiner,” he said. “You might like to see it.”

He handed me the paper, and on the front page was my picture alongside one of Mary and one of Bry. The headline was ‘JOHNNY LANE CAUGHT RED-HANDED IN DOUBLE MURDER’. Everything Max had told me was in it. They didn’t know how I did it, though. Nor was there any evidence, no real evidence that is. Just a bunch of wild guesses. I handed the paper back to Max, smiling as I did. They didn’t have a damn thing. Nothing they could prove.

“It really is better for you that you came here, Johnny,” Max said, hesitating a little. “This way it will be faster for you. If you hadn’t come, the Examiner would have started running stories about you blackmailing your clients, and—”

I cut him off. “Max.” I shook my head like I was talking to a child. “You don’t really believe any of this, do you?”

“Every word of it.” But there was a flicker of doubt in his eyes.

Bill was standing quietly, soaking everything in. I guess he’d had enough. “Alright, Max,” he said softly. “Move aside. Sorry, Johnny, but I’m going to have to put the cuffs on. Would you mind facing the wall?”

“Bill,” I tried explaining, “they don’t have anything. Just hearsay and wild stories. There’s not one damn bit of evidence. I’m going to sue the hell out of the Examiner. They’ll be paying for my retirement. He”—I jerked a thumb towards Max—”doesn’t have a damn thing to lose. But you got a pension coming up. You don’t want to lose that, do you? Not over something this crazy?”

“I guess we’ll just have to see what happens.” He spun me around and pushed me against the wall. “Anyway, it just don’t seem all that crazy to me, not after you coming here the way you did. Sneaking in the dark and picking up the pillow like you were going to smother someone. Be a nice fellow and put your hands behind your back.”

I had to get him to understand the mistake he was making. “I didn’t turn on the lights because Roth told me Mary was lying here sick and I didn’t want the bright lights to disturb her. I was just reaching down to feel her forehead, you know, see if she was okay. I-I g-guess I slipped, and maybe it looked like I was grabbing the pillow. But I wasn’t. You don’t believe any of this nonsense, do you?”

“I’ve got to tell you, Johnny.” He slapped the cuffs shut. They bit into my wrists worse than barbed wire. “When Mr. Braggs and Max came to me with this story, I thought they were nuts. I always thought you were one of the good guys. But I’ll tell you, right now it sure looks like you did it.”

I was speechless. Why in the world would I come here to kill someone who was already dead? They should’ve been able to see how crazy it all was, instead of just standing there staring at me like I was a . . . .

Max interrupted. “By the way, your flowers didn’t come yet.”

“What?”

“Bill and I were both listening in when you called trying to get Mary’s room number. You wanted to get here without anyone knowing about it.”

I guess I broke out laughing, because what the hell was that going to prove? “The flowers should be here any minute. Why don’t we wait for them?” I did send flowers to Mary’s room. Why wouldn’t I? “Bill, give me one piece of real evidence that you have against me.”

“Yeah, okay.” He sounded almost as if he were ashamed of himself. “We did find footprints outside the victim’s car.”

“They were probably made by you cops!”

“Maybe, but anyway—”

“Look,” I cut in. “Get it through your thick skull that if you arrest me, you’re going to be in for it just like Roth and Braggs! You don’t have a damn single thing!”

His eyes went blank. “I wouldn’t quite say that.” He pulled me away from the wall, pushing me towards the door. “We at least got enough to get search warrants for your home and office. We’ll see what we find.”

“I’m trying to tell you—there’s nothing to . . . .” And I stopped. Nothing except the blood-soaked clothing behind my file cabinet. I guess I was waiting until I was sure Eddie had cooled off before I disposed of them. I didn’t want to take the chance of him having someone watching me. But if they checked the blood type they’d see it’s not Mary’s . . . . They’d find out it came from Marge and Bert Debbles. And . . . .

They can hang you for one murder as easy as any other . . . .

Max was staring at me. He had a funny look on his face, almost like he had been hoping all along that he was wrong and just found out he wasn’t. I wanted to explain things to him. Make him understand. Do anything to get that look off his face. I had to get that look off his face before I—but I had handcuffs on. I guess there wasn’t much I could do. “There is something to find.” He nodded slowly. “Why did you do it, Johnny?”

I wanted to explain how Mary did go to see Jerry Bry, and he was shot dead. And Mary was found after committing suicide. What was so hard to understand about that? And Marge and Bert Debbles were beaten to death by some drugged-up addict. These things happen, right? And Rose, she must’ve choked to death on a chicken bone . . . except there were those scratch marks on her neck, so it must have been something else. And Poppa, well, he just . . . .

If Rose had only pulled the trigger when she’d had the chance none of this would’ve happened. Of course, I can’t put all the blame on her. There were all those times I had my gun in my mouth and I couldn’t do it either. My hand would start shaking like all those times when I stood over my poppa with his razor.

I tried looking at Max, but I couldn’t say anything. I couldn’t figure out how things had happened. How they could be explained. I just plain couldn’t think. Nothing made a damn bit of sense. Except. . . .

I have a razor hidden on me, and if they don’t search me carefully enough and if I have the handcuffs off and I’m all alone, I’ll know what to do. This time my hand won’t shake.

###

Bonus Section

This bonus section includes: ‘More Than a Scam’ from 21 Tales, first chapter from Bad Thoughts, first section from the novella ‘Julius Katz’ and the first chapter for a new book, Vampire Crimes.

More Than a Scam (from 21 Tales)

The inspiration for this story were the ubiquitous Nigerian email scam letters I was receiving daily. At first I was planning to do the same as my story’s hero, namely record a correspondence with one of these scam artists, but instead I decided to go in another direction. More Than a Scam received honorable in the 2003 edition of Best American Mystery Stories.

It really all started with the email I received. The message was marked “Urgent/Confidential” and was from one Celestine Okiti, who claimed to be a senior accountant with the Nigerian Federal Ministry of Finance. The gist of the email was that ten and a half million dollars was sitting in a Nigerian bank account and she was looking for a partner to pose as the next of kin of some dead foreign contractor so she could get the money out – and that my cut would be four and a half million dollars, minus expenses.

Of course it was a scam. It was too silly to be anything else, and besides I had read about this years ago. The “pigeon” who went for his four and a half million cut would be asked to put up some money to show good faith and to cover the expenses. It was a pretty simple and childish scam, one that makes you wonder how anyone in the world could fall for it, but still, I was fascinated by that email. It got my mind spinning on different crime story scenarios.

I guess I should tell you a little about myself so that this makes some sense. My name’s Dan Wilson. I’m thirty-eight, live in a suburb near Boston, been married ten years, and have a pretty boring job processing insurance claims. In order to keep my sanity I write crime stories in my spare time. Usually I write hard-boiled PI stories, sometimes crime caper stories. I’ve had limited success. I’ve sold a couple of stories to print magazines and have given away a fair number of them to online Internet magazines.

I sat for a good two hours staring at Celestine Okiti’s message, playing out different story ideas in my mind. The one idea I kept coming back to was responding to her email message, pretending to be a pigeon, and then writing up the exchange of emails as a story. I didn’t do anything, though, at least not then. By the time I gave up it was one in the morning. I didn’t want to wake Cheryl so I slept in the guest room.

The next morning as I sat drinking coffee my mind raced with different possible Nigerian bank scam stories. I didn’t notice Cheryl had come into the room until she sat across from me with her yogurt and newspaper. She seemed too absorbed with the newspaper – and I guess I was too deep into plotting my story – for us to say much to each other. After I finished my coffee I headed off to work.

After three days of working out different scenarios in my mind, I decided on a plan of action. Instead of replying back to the email as a “pigeon”, I would instead create my own scam. I have written stories with a roguish conman named Pete Mitchel. For the hell of it I decided to use his identity. I created an email account for Pete and wrote an email back to Celestine Okiti, telling her how fortuitous it was that she had contacted me, that I worked in the office of a large construction company, and that a Nigerian national died on the job several months ago and seven hundred and twenty thousand dollars in death benefits were sitting there waiting for a next of kin. I told her that I was planning a trip to Nigeria to find someone who could pose as the dead man’s next of kin, but Celestine could save me the trouble. I further explained that I wasn’t greedy, that ten percent, or seventy-two thousand dollars, would be all I wanted.

I sat in front of my computer for several hours with my email message typed out, trying to decide whether to send it. Of course, the scam letter they sent to me had been sent to thousands of other addresses, probably from a purchased email list. They’d have no idea whether or not an email was originally sent to a Pete Mitchel, nor would they check. As I was trying to decide what to do with the email, Cheryl walked into the room and interrupted me. She told me it was late, that she had to get up early the next day, and asked if I’d be quiet when I went to bed. She looked tired, a little worn out. I told her not to worry, that I’d sleep in the guest room again. After she left, I stared at the email message for another thirty minutes, and then sent it.

I didn’t get a response for several days. I must’ve checked my email a few hundred times before I found a reply from Celestine Okiti. She thanked me for the opportunity that I presented, but insisted that her opportunity was urgent and was far more lucrative. She wanted me to contact her right away so that I could reap my four and a half million dollars, minus expenses of course.

I had already worked out in my mind what my next step would be if I heard back from Ms. Okiti. First, I used a travel web-site to book a flight to Nigeria for my fictitious Pete Mitchel. I then sent her back a reply stating that I knew her proposal to me was a scam, but that I considered it good fortune that she had contacted me when she did, possibly saving me from a trip to Nigeria that I wasn’t anxious to take. I told her, though, that time was running out for me to collect the insurance money and that I had booked a flight for the following week to Nigeria so that I could find a local who could pose as the dead man’s next of kin. I passed along all the flight information, and told her if she changed her mind she could let me know, but that time was running out.

I didn’t expect a reply to my email. I guess I must have been feeling a bit queasy about the whole thing and at a subconscious level had decided to put a stop to it. I was more than a little surprised when I got a terse reply back from Ms. Okiti to fax her a copy of the dead man’s death certificate and the insurance policy.

The insurance policy was easy. I was able to get a fairly realistic policy printed up in no time. The trick was filling in all of the contact information and then blacking it out with a pen. As far as the death certificate, I found samples on the Internet, and then used a graphics package on my computer to create a fairly realistic looking one. It took some time, but I was happy with the results. I faxed both of them to the number I was given.

Over the next four days we went back and forth over a number of issues until we were able to settle things. First, Celestine Okiti wanted to pay me my ten percent cut after she received the insurance money. I flatly refused, reminding Celestine Okiti that her and her associates were scam artists, hardly to be trusted. With the deadline of my booked flight approaching, she finally gave in. The next issue was how my ten percent was going to be sent to me. They wanted to send a check and I wanted them to wire the money to a bank account that I had opened for Pete Mitchel (I had obtained a fake driver’s license for Pete Mitchel which is actually quite easy to do in Massachusetts, and had used it to open a bank account). Since they gave in on the other matter, I gave in on this one. I rented a mailbox in Pete Mitchel’s name and sent Celestine Okiti the address.

During those four days, I guess I must have been acting somewhat manic. I could tell Cheryl knew something was up, but I didn’t want to tell her anything. She’d think I was nuts and wouldn’t be at all happy with what I was doing. She tried a couple of times to ask me what was keeping me so occupied, and I just told her that I was working on a new crime story. I could tell she was annoyed, but she left it alone.

To be honest, I never expected them to send a check. Even when I called up the store where I rented the mailbox and was told that I had a letter waiting for me, I still didn’t believe that they would send me a check. But when I picked up the letter and opened it, there it was. A check for seventy-two thousand dollars made out to Pete Mitchel. I drove home and put the check in my desk drawer. I then sent Celestine Okiti an email message, telling her that after the check cleared I would send them the necessary documentation to collect the insurance money.

I had a restless night as I tried to decide what to do. The next morning, though, I drove to Pete Mitchel’s bank and deposited the check. Over the next couple of days, Cheryl made comments about how quiet I had gotten. I couldn’t tell her about what had happened, so I told her I had some stuff going on at work.

After I heard the check had cleared, I transferred the money to a Swiss bank account I had opened up. I also destroyed Pete Mitchel’s email account. I kept the email messages, though. I was still planning on using them for a short story.

Things pretty much settled back to normal after that. About a week later I had gotten home early from work and was sitting at my computer when the doorbell rang. There were two black men standing outside my door. My guess they were Nigerians. They were both tall, thin. Both were wearing slacks and polo shirts. Either one or both of them had on a heavy, musky cologne. The smell was overpowering. Both of them looked angry.

“We’re here for our six hundred and forty-eight thousand dollars, Mr. Mitchel, or should I say, Mr. Wilson,” the one closest to me said.

So they had tracked me down. They must’ve been waiting at my rented mailbox and followed me home after I had picked up the check. I looked at the two of them scowling at me and I just started laughing. “I can’t believe you fell for my scam,” I told them. “Especially since it was so much like your own scam, using the same next of kin angle. Jesus, how stupid can you be?”

They both looked stunned. I watched with amusement as my words seeped in and the anger in their faces boiled into pure hatred. It was shining in their eyes. “We want our money, now!” the same man demanded, his voice rising.

My neighbor, Carl Moscone, had opened his door and was staring at us, making sure everything was okay. Moscone is a retired Boston Cop. He’s a big man, almost as wide as he is tall. I waved at him. The two men on my doorstep noticed him also.

“You’re not getting a dime,” I said, still laughing softly. I couldn’t help it. “You know, at first I was just playing around, seeing if I could get enough emails to get a good crime story. It never occurred to me that you would actually send me any money. But now I’m having fun. And I’m going to have even more fun spending your seventy-two thousand dollars. First thing I’m going to do is buy my wife a very expensive mink coat. Every time she wears it I’ll think of the two of you standing there looking like saps.”

The two men were aware of Moscone staring at them. It seemed to effect them. The man closest to me asked in a low voice how I would like it if he called the police. That just made me laugh harder. The harder I laughed the more infuriated they both got, but I couldn’t help it. It took a few moments before I could talk.

“I’ll call them for you right now if you want,” I said when I could. I had to wipe tears from my eyes I was laughing so hard. “I’ll show them all the emails that went back and forth between us. I’ll explain to them how I decided as a lark to see if I could scam you instead, and how you actually fell for it. I’m sure they’ll get as good a laugh out of it as I am. You want me to call them?”

Neither of them said anything.

All of a sudden the amusement had dried up within me. “Get out of here,” I said, now dead serious. “If I see either of you again I will call the police.”

“It is not over,” the one closest to me said. “We will get our money.” And then they both turned and left. I watched as they got into their car and drove away, then I went next door and shot the breeze with my neighbor. He asked about the two men. I told him they were scam artists who struck out with me, and left it at that.

The next day I had a bunch of issues pop up at work. It took me until seven that night before I had them under control, and I didn’t get home until eight. When I opened the door I couldn’t help noticing how quiet it seemed. I called out for Cheryl and got no answer. There was a light on in the kitchen. I walked in and saw the butcher knife lying on the counter top. Its edge faced me and I could see a red smudge running along it. Then I spotted the severed finger. It took me a moment to realize what it was. I don’t why. I guess it looked like a finger, but it just seemed odd lying there. It was placed on top of a note. The note was written in small, neat letters, and informed me that if I wanted to get my wife back without any more missing parts I had better pay them the money I owed them. The note ended by asking if I was still laughing. I picked up the phone and called the police.

The detective looked incredulous as I told him the whole story. I showed him all of the emails – the ones I had received and the ones I sent. I didn’t leave anything out. I told him about the fake documents I created, the bank account for my fictitious Pete Mitchel, the rented mailbox, the seventy-two thousand dollars, I told him everything. When I was done he had me tell my story to another detective, and after that to an FBI agent.

It turns out the police found Cheryl less than three hours after I had called them. It was probably due to a combination of the Nigerians being sloppy, since this was most likely their first kidnapping, and not considering that I would call the authorities. In any case, my neighbor Moscone had written down their license plate number from the day before, and they had used the same car for the kidnapping. The police found them in a small house in Chelsea. They had hacked Cheryl into pieces and were in the process of packing the pieces into boxes when the police broke in. I guess they were planning on mailing Cheryl back to me, piece by piece, after I paid them their money.

At the time the police didn’t tell me anything, and I didn’t find out about Cheryl until the next day. That night they took me in for more questioning. I was asked several times if I wanted a lawyer, and each time I declined. At one point I was asked if I’d be willing to take a lie detector test. I told them I would. They then left me alone for several hours. I was then brought to another room, hooked up to a polygraph, and questioned. I answered each question truthfully, and they seemed satisfied with the results.

I think it was past nine o’clock the next morning when I met with the District Attorney. He looked uncomfortable as he told me about Cheryl. It was the first I heard of it and it took a moment for it to register. When I finally made sense of what he was saying, I just started sobbing. I couldn’t help it and I couldn’t stop myself. I just sat there sobbing uncontrollably, sobbing until it felt like my chest was going to break apart.

In the end the District Attorney decided not to press charges against me. While I acted criminally in trying to defraud the Nigerians, it was hard to muster much sympathy towards them. He was also convinced that I didn’t intend for any harm to come to Cheryl. When the Nigerians were arrested they had confessed fully and bitterly, explaining why they had hacked my wife to pieces. The D.A. decided not to hold me criminally negligent, even though in his opinion I acted stupidly. We agreed that I would turn over the seventy-two thousand dollars to a local youth group. I think it really got to him the way I reacted when I heard about Cheryl. He knew my reaction was genuine, he knew I wasn’t faking it, but he completely misunderstood the reason behind it.

I was lucky to pass the lie detector. I was lucky that all they were trying to do was verify my statement, and I had been completely truthful with my statement. If they had had some imagination I would’ve been sunk. To be honest I never expected the Nigerians to send me any money. Up until the point where they told me they were mailing me the money, I was just playing around. But from that point on I guess my mind was spinning with different ideas of how I could make it more than a scam. I knew that they wanted to send a check instead of wiring funds to my bank so that they would be able to follow me when I picked up the money. And I saw the Nigerians watching my mailbox when I picked up the check. I saw them when they were following me home; I even slowed down several times so I wouldn’t lose them. And I had no intention of spending any of that seventy-two thousand dollars on a mink coat for Cheryl. I told them that to infuriate them, to give them ideas. And I found reasons to stay late at work to give them time to do what they were going to do.

The thing of it was Cheryl and I had drifted apart over the years. We didn’t really talk much any more, and we didn’t really like being with each other. It had been over a year since we’d had sex, and even longer since I cared about it. A divorce would’ve been costly and unpleasant. So while I had to give up the seventy-two thousand dollars, I was paid six hundred thousand dollars from her life insurance policy. Her parents are now suing me for it, claiming I negligently contributed to her death, but my lawyer doesn’t think they have much of a case. I’m not worried about losing the money.

No, the D.A. wasn’t even close to understanding why I broke down the way I did. It had nothing to do with Cheryl’s death. It just hit me all of a sudden as to what I had done and what I had become. It took me a while to get used to it. But I’m fine now.

Bad Thoughts (Chapter 1)

November 9, 1997. Morning.

The fingers on his right hand—the ones that had been broken and mangled when he was thirteen—were being squeezed hard, forcing him to move through the cold and darkness. He tried to fight it, tried to see who it was behind him, but the grip on his fingers tightened, heightening the pain. He gave up and let himself be pushed forward.

He had no idea where he was. It was too dark to see anything. There was no sense of anything around him except that presence forcing his arm behind his back and squeezing his two fingers. He could smell a faint but oddly familiar odor, like formaldehyde and rotting garbage.

Up ahead was something white and small. As he got closer he could see it was a woman. He was about thirty yards from her, but he could tell she was beautiful, thin and slender with yellowish blond hair. But there was something wrong. Her mouth looked funny, bigger than it should’ve. As he was forced closer he could see she was naked and her hands and feet were bound. He could see pure terror shining in her eyes. A red piece of cloth had been stuffed in her mouth. Thin red lines crisscrossed her body.

Panic overtook him. He tried to fight whatever it was that was squeezing his fingers. He tried, but the pressure tightened and the pain became unbearable. And that smell . . . it was stronger now, gagging him, making his head reel. Whatever strength he had bled out of him.

A knife was lying on her naked belly. He was forced forward until his free hand was inches from it. The pain made him pick it up, made him place the point of the knife against her throat. The pain was trying to force him to stab her in the throat. There was an unspoken promise—push the knife a little further, just break the skin—only draw a drop of blood, and the pain will stop. He tried to fight it. He looked in her eyes. A muffled sound escaped from her as she tried to scream. He dropped the knife to the ground. A loud obscenity was barked out from behind him. The voice was vaguely familiar. Where did he know it from . . .

Then his fingers were twisted with a hard jerk, twisted to the point where they were about to break. The pain exploded inside him.

And then somehow he was free. Falling . . .

* * * * *

Bill Shannon awoke in bed. He was doubled over in pain, his two fingers throbbing, a cold sweat soaking his body. He grabbed his fingers and tried to massage them, tried to ebb the pain flowing from them. They were thicker than his other fingers and were a slightly bluish-purple color. It had been almost twenty years since they had been broken. They had been so badly damaged the doctors at first didn’t believe they could be saved. They were never quite right, though. Always stiff, always slightly purple in color, and at times, especially when it got cold and damp, they would throb like all hell.

The pain faded. He pulled himself up and leaned forward until his forehead rested in his hands. His skin felt cold, clammy. At least he didn’t wake up screaming, god, at least he could be thankful for that. ’Cause if he had . . .

It was still a few minutes before the alarm was set to go off. Susie stirred next to him. He looked down and studied her. She was an exceptionally beautiful woman. Although the only blood in her was Irish, she had a dark, exotic Mediterranean look about her. Small and petite with long black hair that now lay across her oval face. As she slept, Shannon almost didn’t recognize her. She looked so calm and at peace, so much younger than her twenty-nine years. Even though they had been married for ten years, at that moment it seemed incredible to him that they knew each other.

Susie opened her eyes. As she recognized Shannon, and then as she focused on the perspiration dampening his skin, the color left her face.

“You’re having nightmares again,” she said hoarsely.

Shannon didn’t say anything.

“What was it about, Bill?”

“I don’t know,” he lied. “I really don’t. But I don’t think it’s anything to worry about.”

She rolled over and turned her back to him. “It’s early for you to be having nightmares. Three months early. You told me you were making progress with your therapist, that this year was going to be different.”

“I really don’t think this is anything to worry about,” Shannon repeated weakly.

Susie lay quietly for a few moments. Then she got up and headed towards the bathroom. Before closing the door she turned to him and told him she hoped he was right. “I don’t think I can take it again this year,” she said.

She closed the door behind her. A minute later the shower was turned on. Shannon fell back onto the bed and listened to the soft drone of the water. Susie was right, it was too early for him to be having nightmares. February tenth was still three months away.

He closed his eyes and thought about his dream. Usually he couldn’t remember them. They’d be right at the edge of his subconscious, right where he could just about get a finger or two on them, and then they’d slip away. God, if this is what he dreamed about he could be thankful for that. This one, though . . .

He never saw that woman before. He knew that. She seemed so real, though. Shannon shivered thinking about her eyes, the pure, raw terror that flooded her blue eyes. And that smell. It was so damn familiar . . .

* * * * *

Neither of them had any appetite for breakfast. Shannon drank some instant coffee and then he drove Susie to the law office in South Boston where she worked as a legal secretary. During the ride she sat frozen, her small hands pressed together, her eyes rigid as they stared straight ahead. As she got out of the car she gave her husband an uneasy look.

“Bill,” she said, her face softening, “please tell your therapist about your nightmare. Promise?”

“Sure.” He tried to smile at her. “But I don’t think it’s anything to worry about. People have nightmares sometimes, right? It’s normal.”

As she stared at him the softness from around her eyes faded, leaving her face both drawn and tired. Without a word she turned from him and walked away, her movement as frigid as the November morning air. Shannon watched as she headed towards the building’s entrance. He struggled to keep his smile intact. For some reason he hoped she’d turn around, that she’d relent and give him a reassuring look, let him know there was nothing to worry about. He watched as she disappeared into the building, not once looking back at him. He couldn’t blame her. He knew in the pit of his stomach his nightmare was anything but normal.

But, as he told himself, February was still three months away. He could still beat it. Just block the damn thing out of his mind because nothing happened. Nothing but a crazy nightmare. His lips pressed into a tight smile as he pulled away from the curb. Twenty minutes later his jaw muscles ached as he drove into the back lot behind the Cambridge Central Square police station.

* * * * *

Captain Martin Brady was hanging by Shannon’s desk talking with a couple of the other detectives. As Shannon approached, Brady’s pale blue eyes took him in. “You’re looking a bit gaunt this morning,” Brady said, a thin smile on his lips.

“I had some trouble sleeping last night.”

“Not ill or anything, I hope?”

“No. I just had a little insomnia.”

Brady’s pale eyes held steady on Shannon for a good twenty seconds before blinking. “Sometimes alcohol can interfere with your sleep. You haven’t been drinking, now, have you?”

“Not a drop.”

“That’s good.” Brady inhaled, obviously trying to detect booze on his detective’s breath. Satisfied, he backed away. “Joe’s waiting for you in interrogation room B. He’s with a Kyle Rowley. Rowley’s wife, Janice, never made it home last night. Her car was found this morning in an industrial park off First Street. No sign of her.”

“That doesn’t sound good. Any reason to suspect him?”

“There is.” Brady showed his thin smile again, a smile that never made it anywhere near his eyes. “He came down to the station last night around seven to report his wife missing. Mind you, she was only an hour late at that point. Sounds like he might’ve been a bit too anxious to set up an alibi.”

Shannon nodded. “Yeah, it does sound that way.”

“I’d like to see this wrapped up quickly.” Brady hesitated as a queasy look pushed the smile from his lips. “An abduction is going to scare people here. If it’s the husband let’s get this finished with this morning before the media gets a whiff of it.”

“What about the car?”

“Forensics is going over it. Talk to the husband, okay, Bill?”

“Sure.”

“And, Bill, get it finished with this morning.”

Shannon gave his captain a nod and then headed off in the direction of the interrogation rooms. He stopped off at the lunch room to pour himself some coffee, and then stepped outside so he could smoke a cigarette. Cambridge had a smoking ban in the work place, and even though over half the cops in the precinct smoked, it was strictly enforced. Getting caught cost you a thirty-dollar fine, and he had already racked up a hundred and fifty in fines over the past three months. If Susie knew she’d be pissed, he thought with a slight smile. When he was done, when his nerves had for the most part settled, Shannon went to interrogation room B and stuck his head in.

Joe DiGrazia was leaning back in a chair, his eyes half closed, his hands folded on top of his thick belly. Sitting across from him was a man in his early thirties, tall, lean, with a sallow complexion and a day’s growth of stubble covering his face. The man, Kyle Rowley, looked like he hadn’t gotten much sleep the night before.

DiGrazia caught Shannon’s eye and gave him a signal that they needed to talk alone. He then turned to Rowley and told him he’d be right back. Rowley nodded dully in response.

Outside the interrogation room DiGrazia took a deep breath, expanding his chest half a foot. He was built like a bull, about five feet eight inches tall and practically the same width. A short, thick neck, not much hair, and a face like a granite block. He exhaled a lung full of air and made a face.

“I don’t know about this, partner,” he said. “I think the man’s genuine.”

“Why’d he report it so early?”

DiGrazia shrugged. “He was worried.”

“Tell me about him.”

“There’s not much. He’s a white-collar type, a software engineer, married four years. They have an apartment near Porter Square. And his wife’s missing. That’s about it . . .”

DiGrazia stopped, his eyes narrowing as he studied his partner. “Are you feeling okay?” he asked.

“I didn’t sleep well last night,” Shannon said.

“You don’t look too good. Kind of nervous,” DiGrazia observed.

“I’m fine. Let’s go talk to the husband.”

They went back into the interrogation room and Shannon introduced himself to Rowley. Rowley seemed only partly aware of it, his eyes searching off into the distance.

“What time was your wife supposed to be home last night?”

“Six o’clock,” Rowley said, his eyes drifting towards Shannon but not quite making it. “Janice called me at five and told me she’d pick something up for dinner. She asked what I wanted and I told her to pick up whatever she was in the mood for. She told me she’d be home by six.”

“And after being only an hour late you thought something had happened to her?”

“I knew something had happened to her.” Rowley’s eyes met Shannon’s. They had a sickish, jaundiced look about them. “I don’t know how I knew, but I did. I came down here last night, but the officer at the front desk told me Janice had probably just stopped off someplace for a couple of drinks.”

“Wasn’t that possible?”

“No.”

“She’s never been late before?”

“Of course she has. There have been times when she’s been stuck at work, or she has a hair appointment that’s running late, but not like this. She called before leaving work that she was going to pick something up for dinner and be right home.”

“Where does she work?”

“In Watertown. She’s an accountant. Here’s her business card.” Kyle Rowley took a card from his wallet and handed it to Shannon.

The card had Janice Rowley’s work address and phone number. Shannon put it down in front of him and considered Kyle Rowley for a long moment.

“How have you and your wife been getting along?” Shannon asked at last.

Rowley tilted his head to the side, shaking it slightly. His lips pulled into a thin smile.

“I need to ask you this.”

“This isn’t anything like that,” Kyle Rowley said, his voice tired. “My wife and I love each other very much.”

“There haven’t been any problems, no fights or anything?”

“No.” Rowley’s eyes shifted upwards to lock in on Shannon’s.

“If we were to ask around we’d hear—”

“You’d hear the same thing. That me and my wife love each other. That’s all you’d hear about us.”

Shannon took a pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket, shook one loose, and looked at it for a long moment before pushing it back into place. He noticed DiGrazia staring at him from the corners of his thin, narrowed eyes.

“Could your wife be seeing someone else?” Shannon asked.

“No.”

“Is there the possibility—”

“No. Janice is not seeing anyone. There’s not even the possibility of it.”

“What about someone she works with?”

“I told you she’s not seeing anyone—”

“But you have suspicions, though.”

“What do you mean?”

“You had her business card ready for me. You obviously have suspicions about somebody there.”

Rowley thought it over. “I don’t think so,” he said. “You asked me where she worked. Anyway, I thought it could help to give it to you. Maybe somebody saw someone suspicious in the parking lot. Maybe somebody heard something. I don’t know. But that’s why I gave you her card. Janice is not seeing anyone.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because I know my wife,” Kyle Rowley said. “I know how we feel about each other.”

Something about Rowley being so cocksure of his wife bothered Shannon. Shit, half the cops he knew sooner or later found their wives in affairs. Stubbornly he kept at it. “If your wife is seeing someone I need to know about it—”

“She’s not seeing anyone. This is not anything like that.”

“What is this then?”

Pain pushed through the dullness in Kyle Rowley’s eyes. His entire face momentarily was flushed with it. “Janice was abducted,” he said. “Somebody took her. You realize that, don’t you?”

“Okay,” Shannon said, “let me be straight with you. What I realize is your wife is missing, either because she wants to be, because somebody did something to her, or because you did something to her. If we can rule you out then we can focus on the other two possibilities. Which means if your wife really was abducted, the quicker we can cross you off, the better the chance we’d have of finding her. Will you give us permission to search your apartment?”

“It’s not going to help at all—”

“I could get a warrant, but it would take time. I don’t think we want to waste time right now.”

Anger turned Rowley’s skin a soft purple. “This is ridiculous,” he started to argue, his jaw muscles hardening, “there’s nothing in my apartment that’s going to help you find my wife—”

“If you’re involved, you’re doing the right thing by stonewalling us,” Shannon said.

“I’m not trying to stonewall you,” Rowley said. “Goddamn it.” He shook his head. The color drained out of his face, leaving it the same unhealthy yellow it was before. “Do whatever you want as long as it gets you looking for Janice.”

“Are you willing to take a polygraph test?”

“I’ll take whatever you want me to take. Just find my wife.”

Shannon stood up. “I’m going to get you a pad of paper. I want you to write down any place your wife might have stopped off last night to pick up dinner. Any place you can think of. I want you to also write down anything unusual that might have happened over the last couple months, anything your wife might’ve said that seemed out of place—”

“Like what?”

“Like somebody coming on to her at work, or threatening her, anything like that. I also want you to write down everything you did from the time you left work yesterday to coming here this morning.” Shannon hesitated. “Do you have pictures of your wife?”

“I didn’t bring any. I can go home and get some.”

“That’s okay. Just give me your keys. While you’re writing down what I asked, Detective DiGrazia and I will search your apartment. I need to get a photo of your wife out on the wire. Do you give me permission to remove photos of her from your apartment?”

Kyle Rowley told Shannon to do whatever he needed to do and told him where they kept their photo albums. He took a pair of keys off a chain and handed them to Shannon. “Janice’s still alive,” he said. “I know it. I don’t know how I know it, but I do. Don’t let her die. She’s my life. I don’t think I can make it without her.”

“I’ll do everything I can. I promise. I’ll be right back with that pad.”

DiGrazia, before leaving, put a hand on Rowley’s shoulder and told him to hang in there.

Out in the hallway DiGrazia remarked how he let Shannon do all the talking.

“Yeah, I noticed.”

“I wanted to give you every opportunity to form an unbiased opinion.”

“Thanks.”

“You thought there was something funny about him pointing us towards her coworkers?”

“No. I just wanted to ask him about it.”

“So what do you think,” DiGrazia asked, “is he genuine?”

Shannon thought about it. “What I think is we’ve got a woman in pretty bad trouble.”

* * * * *

Before leaving the precinct they stopped to talk with Brady. Forensics took a couple of partial prints off the steering wheel, nothing else.

“Of course,” Brady went on, “they’re most likely the victim’s, but we’ll check them. Bill, tell me about the husband.”

“He’s given us permission to search his apartment and he’s also willing to take a polygraph. I’ve set it up for one this afternoon. Do you want to be there?”

“I don’t think that’s necessary. Is he responsible?”

“I don’t know.”

“What do you mean you don’t know?”

Shannon shook his head. “I don’t have a feel yet, Martin. I really don’t know.”

Brady gave DiGrazia a questioning look, but DiGrazia cut him off. “I don’t know what the fuck’s going on,” he said.

“You’re disappointing me,” Brady said to the two cops as they walked away from him.

Brady stood watching them, shaking his head, a dour look forming over his soft features. “And I’m not at all happy about it,” he said to no one in particular.

Julius Katz (first section)

We were at the dog track, Julius Katz and me. I had finished relaying to Julius the odds I calculated for the greyhounds running in the third race; odds that were calculated by building thousands of analytical models simulating each of the dogs’ previous races, then in a closed loop continuously adjusting the models until they accurately predicted the outcome of each of these races. After that, I factored in the current track and weather conditions, and had as precise a prediction as was mathematically possible. Julius stood silently mulling over what I had given him.

“Bobby’s Diva, Iza Champ and Moondoggie,” Julius murmured softly, repeating the names of the top three dogs I had projected to win.

“Eighty-two percent probability that that will be the order of the top three dogs,” I said.

“That high, huh? Interesting, Archie.”

Julius’s eyes narrowed as he gazed off into the distance, his facial muscles hardening to the point where he could’ve almost been mistaken for a marble sculpture. From past experience, I knew he was running his own calculations, and what I would’ve given to understand and simulate the neuron network that ran through his brain. Julius Katz was forty-two, six-feet tall, a hundred and eighty pounds, with an athletic build and barely an ounce of fat. He was a devoted epicurean who worked off the rich food he consumed each night by performing an hour of rigorous calisthenics each morning, followed up with an hour of intensive martial arts training. From the way women reacted to him, I would guess that he was attractive, not that their outward flirting bothered him at all. Julius’s passions in life were beautiful women, fine gourmet food, even finer wine and, of course, gambling—especially gambling. More often than not he tended to be successful when he gambled—especially at times when I was able to help. All of his hobbies required quite a bit of money and, during the times when he was stuck in a losing streak and his bank account approached anemic levels, Julius would begrudgingly take on a client. There were always clients lining up to hire him since he was known as Boston’s most brilliant and eccentric private investigator, solving some of the city’s most notorious cases. The truth of the matter was Julius hated to forego his true passions for the drudgery of work and only did so when absolutely necessary, and that would be after days of unrelenting nagging on my part. I knew about all this because I acted as Julius’s accountant, personal secretary, unofficial biographer and all-around assistant, although nobody but Julius knew that I existed, at least other than as a voice answering his phone and booking his appointments. Of course I don’t really exist, at least not in the sense of a typical sentient being. Or make that a biological sentient being.

My name wasn’t really “Archie”. During my time with Julius I’ve grown to think of myself as Archie, the same as I’ve grown to imagine myself as a five-foot tall heavyset man with thinning hair, but in reality I’m not five-foot tall, nor do I have the bulk that I imagine myself having, and I certainly don’t have any hair, thinning or otherwise. I also don’t have a name, only a serial identification number. Julius calls me Archie and for whatever reason it seems right; besides, it’s quicker to say than the eighty-four digit serial identification number that has been burnt into me. You’ve probably already guessed that I’m not human, and certainly not anything organic. What I am is a two-inch rectangular-shaped piece of space-aged computer technology that’s twenty-years more advanced than what’s currently considered theoretically possible—at least aside from whatever lab created me. How Julius acquired me, I have no clue. Whenever I’ve tried asking him, he jokes around, telling me he won me in a poker game. It could be true—I wouldn’t know since I have no memory of my time before Julius.

So that’s what I am, a two-inch rectangular mechanism weighing approximately one point two ounces. What’s packed inside my titanium shell includes visual and audio receptors as well as wireless communication components and a highly sophisticated neuron network that not only simulates intelligence, but learning and thinking which adapts in response to my experiences. Auditory and visual recognition are included in my packaging, which means I can both see and hear. As you’ve probably already guessed, I can also speak. When Julius and I are in public, I speak to him through a wireless receiver that he wears in his ear as if it were a hearing aid. When we’re alone in his office he usually plugs the unit into a speaker on his desk.

A man’s voice announced over the loudspeaker that bettors had two minutes to place their final bets for the third race. That brought Julius back to life, a vague smile drifting over his lips. He placed a five hundred dollar wager, picking Sally’s Pooch, Wonder Dog and Pugsly Ugsly to win the Trifecta—none of the dogs that I had predicted. The odds displayed on the betting board were eighty to one. I quickly calculated the probabilities using the analytical models I had devised earlier and came up with a mathematically zero percent chance of his bet winning. I told him that and he chuckled.

“Playing a hunch, Archie.”

“What you’re doing is throwing away five hundred dollars,” I argued. Julius was in the midst of a losing streak and his last bank statement was far from healthy. In a way it was good because it meant he was going to have to seriously consider the three o’clock appointment that I had booked for him with a Miss Norma Brewer. As much as he hates it, working as a private investigator sharpens him and usually knocks him out of his dry gambling spells. I had my own ulterior motives for him taking a new case—it would give me a chance to adapt my deductive reasoning. One of these days I planned to solve a case before Julius did. You wouldn’t think a piece of advanced computer technology would feel competitive, but as I’ve often argued with Julius, there’s little difference between my simulated intelligence and what’s considered sentient. So yes, I wanted to beat Julius, I wanted to prove to him that I could solve a case as well or better than he could. He knew this and always got a good laugh out of it, telling me he had doomed that possibility by naming me Archie.

Of course, I’ve long figured out that joke. Julius patterned my personality and speech based on the works of some of the most important private eye novels of the twentieth century, including those of Dashiell Hammett, Raymond Chandler, Ross Macdonald and Rex Stout. The name he gave me, Archie, was based on Archie Goodwin, Nero Wolfe’s second banana who was always one step behind his boss. Yeah, I got the joke, but one of these days I was going to surprise Julius. It was just a matter of seeing enough cases to allow me to readjust my neuron network appropriately. One of these days he was going to have to start calling me Nero. But for the time being, I was Archie. The reason I had an image of myself being five-foot tall was also easy to explain. Julius wore me as a tie clip, which put me at roughly a five-foot distance from the ground when he stood. I never quite figured out where my self-image of thinning hair and heavyset build came from, but guessed they were physical characteristics I picked up from the Continental Op. Or maybe for some reason I identified with Costanza from Seinfeld—one of the few television programs Julius indulged in.

The dogs were being led around the track and into their starting boxes. Julius sauntered over to get a better view of the track, seemingly unconcerned about his zero percent chance of winning his bet.

“You’re throwing away five hundred dollars,” I said again. “If your bank account was flush this wouldn’t be a problem, but you realize today you don’t have enough to cover next month’s expenses.”

His eyes narrowed as he studied the dogs. “I’m well aware of my financial situation,” he said.

“You haven’t had any wine since last night, so I know you’re not intoxicated,” I said. “The only thing I can figure out is some form of dementia. I’ll hack into John Hopkins research database and see if there’s any information that can help me better diagnose this—”

“Please, Archie,” he said, a slight annoyance edging into his voice. “The race is about to begin.”

The race began. The gates to the starting boxes opened and the dogs poured out of them. As they chased after the artificial rabbit, I watched in stunned silence. The three dogs Julius picked led the race from start to finish, placing in the precise order in which Julius had bet.

For a long moment—maybe for as long as thirty milliseconds, my neuron network froze. I realized afterwards that I had suffered from stunned amazement—a new emotional experience for me.

“T-That’s not possible,” I stammered, which was another first for me. “The odds were mathematically zero that you would win.”

“You realize you just stammered?”

“Yes, I know. How did you pick these dogs?”

He chuckled, very pleased with himself. “Archie, hunches sometimes defy explanation.”

“I don’t buy it,” I said.

His right eyebrow cocked. “No?”

He had moved to the cashier window to collect on his Trifecta bet. Forty thousand dollars before taxes, but even with what was left over after the state and federal authorities took their bites would leave his bank account flush enough to cover his next two month’s expenses which meant he was going to be blowing off his three o’clock appointment. I came up with an idea to keep that from happening, then focused on how he was able to win that bet.

“The odds shouldn’t have been eighty to one as was posted,” I said. “They should’ve been far higher.”

He exchanged his winning ticket for a check made out for the after-tax amount and placed it carefully into his wallet. He turned towards the track exit, and walked at a leisurely pace.

“Very good, Archie. I think you’ve figured it out. Why were the odds only eighty to one?”

I had already calculated the amount bet on the winning Trifecta ticket given the odds and the total amount bet on the race, but I wanted to know how many people made those bets so I hacked into the track’s computer system. “Four other bets were made for a total of six thousand dollars on the same Trifecta combination.”

“And why was that?”

I knew the answer from one of the Damon Runyan stories which was used to build my experience base. “The odds of anyone else picking that Trifecta bet given those dogs’ past history is one out of six point eight million. That four other people would be willing to bet that much money given an expected winnings of near zero dollars could only be explained by the race being fixed.”

“Bingo.”

“I don’t get it,” I said. “If you knew which dogs were going to win, why didn’t you bet more money?”

“Two reasons. First, fixing a dog race is not an exact science. Things can go wrong. Second, if I bet more I would’ve upset the odds enough to where I could’ve tipped off the track authorities, and even worse, upset the good folks who set the fix up and were nice enough to invite me to participate.”

I digested that. With a twinkle showing in Julius’s right eye, he informed me that he was going to be spending the rest of the afternoon at the Belvedere Club sampling some of their fine cognacs, and that I should call his three o’clock appointment and cancel. A blond woman in her early thirties smiled at Julius, and he noticed and veered off in her direction, a grin growing over his own lips. Her physical characteristics closely matched those of the actress Heather Locklear, which would’ve told me she was very attractive even without Julius’s reaction to her. This was not good. If Julius blew off his three-o’clock, it could be a month or longer before I’d be able to talk him into taking another job, which would be a month or longer before I’d have a chance to adjust my deductive reasoning model—and what was becoming more important to me, a chance to trump Julius at solving a case.

“You might like to know I’ve located a case of Romaine Conti Burgundy at the Wine Cellar in Newburyport. I need to place the order today to reserve it,” I said.

That stopped Julius in his tracks.

“1997?”

“Yes sir. What should I do?”

He was stuck. He’d been looking for a case of that particular vintage for months, but the cost would mean he’d have to take a job to both pay for the wine and the upcoming monthly expenses, which meant he wouldn’t have time to get to know the Heather Locklear-look-alike. Julius made up his mind. With a sigh he told me that the Belvedere Club would have to wait, that we had a three o’clock appointment to keep. He showed the blond woman a sad, wistful smile, his look all but saying, “I’m sorry, but we’re talking about a ’97 Romaine Conti after all”, and with determination in his step headed towards the exit again. Once outside, he hailed a taxi and gave the driver the address to his Beacon Hill townhouse. I had known about the Romaine Conti for several days, but had held on to the information so I could use it at the appropriate time, one of the lessons I had learned from the Rex Stout books. Internally, I was smiling. At least that was the image I had of myself. A five-foot tall, balding, chunky man, who couldn’t keep from smiling if his life depended on it.

Vampire Crimes (first chapter)

(Note. My plans are to make Vampire Crimes my first originally published eBook by the end of the year. When my agent sent this book out in 2009 it generated a lot of excitement among younger editors who dug it, but ultimately the ultra violent horror nature of it scared off the older editors who were needed for buy in. It came down to that they were afraid a vampire book that was actually horror and a thriller that was actually noir wouldn’t be accepted by readers who want their vampire books to be teen romances. We’ll see. And while some of these book editors were scared off by it, the film producers I showed this to have dug it every bit as much as these younger book editors did, and right now one of the producers working on the Outsourced film is working to get a film deal for it.)

The Door’s Rider on the Storm was playing on the car radio and for a few blessed seconds Jim closed his eyes and let the music roll over him.

How long had it been since he heard that song, or even The Doors, for that matter? Years. Probably the last time was before he got infected. Since hooking up with Carol the two of them would usually have on a 90s alternative rock station—that was the kind of music she liked; her favorite groups Nirvana, Nine Inch Nails, Smashing Pumpkins, Sonic Youth, and if she couldn’t find one of those stations, she’d either tune in a hip hop station or plug in one of her Kurt Cobain CDs, sometimes Green Day. It didn’t much matter to him. He put her through enough as it was, and if she could find some comfort and peace of mind from her music he was all for it.

With his eyes still closed, the line about a killer on the road brought a sick smile to his lips. Was his own brain squirming like a toad? It sure as hell felt like it. It had been a rough day so far. He had stretched things out and had gone too long between feedings, and now it hurt so bad he could barely sit still. The bright sunlight didn’t help; it made him feel like he was on fire, even with his dark shades and baseball cap pulled down to his eyes. He tugged at the cap, trying to pull it down still further, and sunk lower in his seat, drenched in sweat. It surprised him that he still had any fluids left in his body. He sensed Carol looking at him. He knew she was worried about him and had put on a classic rock ’n roll oldies station to try to keep his mind off of his illness—even though she claimed it was because all they had in Cleveland were classic rock stations, blaming it on their Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. But they weren’t even in Cleveland yet, still traveling east on Interstate 90, about forty miles outside the city.

Groaning inwardly, he opened his eyes a crack and shifted his gaze towards Carol and noticed her knuckles squeezed white as she gripped the wheel. He was always amazed at how small and delicate her hands were. His gaze moved upwards. She looked so deep in thought, her concern about his condition wrecking her face. He tried smiling at her. She moved one of her hands to grip his and gave him a squeeze.

“I never should’ve let you wait this long,” she said.

“I’ll be okay.”

It hurt just talking, his voice soft and hollow and rattling emptily in his throat; the sound of a saw pulled loosely over metal.

She shook her head, the skin tight around her mouth, her jaw pushed forward.

“I shouldn’t have let you do this,” she said. “Look at you. You’re so sick you can barely sit up.”

He cleared his throat, and again told her that he’d be fine.

“You’re going to feed tonight,” she said. “I’m not letting you push this out another day.”

There was nothing but strength and determination in her voice. He didn’t argue with her. He knew it wasn’t safe to wait any longer. Already he could feel himself slipping into this crazed state of consciousness, part hallucinations and part animal fury. It would only last for a few seconds, but he had a sense it was going to get worse if he didn’t feed soon, and God knows who he might feed on if he lost control altogether.

Carol let go of his hand to get a better grip on the wheel. It constantly amazed him that she loved him as much as she did. How could someone as wonderful as her love a monster like him? There was no mistaking that that’s what he was, at least what he had become since his infection. Before the infection he was a good-looking guy; six-foot, 190 pounds, dark complexion, muscular, a hardness about him from his time in the Army, along with a constant five-o’clock shadow. The infection dramatically changed his physical appearance. Zero body fat and his muscles lengthening and becoming tough and sinewy. It also lightened his complexion, his hair now white, and his skin becoming smooth with no beard or mustache to worry about. His weight had dropped significantly also, now at 140, and his body becoming lean, cat-like; even his head had changed shape, becoming angular, kind of like the elves in the Lord of the Rings movie. His teeth didn’t change, though, he didn’t develop fangs, but he was still a monster—what else would you call a creature that looked mostly human but needed to subsist on human blood?

The Doors Riders on the Storm ended, and the next song up was The Stones Sympathy For The Devil. The timing of that made him laugh weakly, his insides hurting like hell as his body shook. Sympathy for the devil, huh? How about any sympathy for him, not that he deserved any, at least not with what he has had to do to survive. If he hadn’t met Carol, he probably would’ve found a way to end his life—not that it would’ve been easy with what the virus had done to him, leaving his muscles and tendons as hard as steel and his skin close to bulletproof, and causing this weird kind of super immunity where his vital organs would regenerate on injury.

Before meeting Carol he had thought long and hard about what he would have to do to kill himself if it ended up that way. Explosives, maybe, but then again they could just blow off his limbs and leave him still alive. A guillotine with a sharp enough blade might do the trick; or if he cut himself open and pulled out his heart and made sure no tissue was left behind to regenerate into a new one. Those had seemed like his best bets. Later, days before meeting Carol, he learned first-hand that shoving a hand grenade down a vampire’s throat did the job just fine, but that was something discovered on the spur of the moment. Since Carol, he had put those thoughts out of his head and accepted that he would spend his life traveling aimlessly from city to city feeding when he had to. Nothing else was possible anymore. He cared too deeply for Carol to leave her, especially knowing what it would do to her.

A few final wheezes of laughter shook him, then with his teeth clattering he hugged himself tightly trying to shrink his body from any exposure to the sun. Thin lines showed along the edges of Carol’s mouth as her concern for him deepened. She reached over and caressed his neck.

“I hate seeing you like this,” she said.

“I know. But I’ll be okay.”

“I don’t think you’re going to be able to wait until tonight.”

“I’ll be able to.”

She paused for a moment, her eyes growing dim as she stared off into the distance.

“You can feed off of me,” she said, her voice barely above the engine whine of their ’88 Chevy Nova.

“Please, don’t bring this up again.”

She bit her lip, tried to smile.

“I want you to,” she said. “We should go through this together.”

“It’s not going to happen. So stop it, please.”

Jim’s hand shook as he reached over to turn the volume higher on the car radio and at the same time end the discussion. Carol’s cheeks puffed up, obviously frustrated, but she took the hint and dropped the subject. The station played a set of Leonard Cohen songs, and after “Hallelujah” ended, Carol turned off the radio. They rode in silence for a few minutes before she mentioned that she liked those songs and asked who the artist was. Jim told her the name of the musician.

“We’ll have to find some of his CDs,” she said. “Very cool voice. Even though it sounds like he’s got something stuck in his throat. And those lyrics, wow. It sent a chill down my spine.”

“Yeah, I’ve been a fan for a long time. Him and Dylan are the two best songwriters of the last forty years. It’s good to see the old dude get rediscovered.”

Carol made a face. She wasn’t a fan of Bob Dylan, which always mystified him. He couldn’t imagine anyone not being a fan. They drove in silence for another few minutes, the lines along Carol’s mouth deepening as her eyes shifted sideways and she caught a glimpse of him. Jim could only imagine what he looked like sitting there pale and shivering, his clothing soaked through with perspiration.

“Will you be okay if I stop someplace to eat?”

“Sure.”

“I wouldn’t be asking except I think I might pass out if I don’t get some food.” She gave him a sad smile. “Unlike you I can’t put off eating for twelve days.”

“Well, it’s not as if I ever really eat anyways…”

“You know what I mean.”

“I know what you mean,” Jim said. They’d been on the road six hours since having left Springfield, Illinois at the crack of dawn. Carol didn’t understand why they had to drive to Cleveland, why he couldn’t feed there, but Jim wasn’t having any luck finding what he was looking for in Springfield. Chicago, while closer, was out. He had already fed there too many times as it was, and had to be careful about drawing suspicion to what he was doing. Cleveland would have what he needed. “First place we see we stop at. You need a break, lady,” Jim added.

She nodded, smiling thinly. A few miles down the road they spotted a roadside diner and she pulled into the parking lot. Jim was shaking badly as he hobbled from the car to the diner’s entrance, his vision blurred, his feet unsteady. Carol moved quickly to his side so he could lean against her. Outside of a blonde heavyset cashier chewing gum and a middle-aged waitress with a Led Zeppelin logo tattooed on her neck, there were maybe ten other people scattered along the counter and in booths. All eyes turned to Carol and Jim as they walked in. The cashier stared at them and popped her gum.

“Miss, is your boyfriend sick?” she asked.

“It’s nothing contagious,” Carol muttered, annoyed.

“I don’t know about that, Honey.” The cashier hesitated as she looked Jim over more carefully. “To me he looks like he’s got something pretty bad. Maybe it would be best if he don’t come in here. It wouldn’t be fair bringing him into a public restaurant, not with all the other folks we’ve got eating here now. Honey, they shouldn’t have to worry about catching what he’s got.”

“I’m standing right here,” Jim said in a soft whisper. “It’s not as if I can’t hear everything you’re saying.”

The cashier continued to ignore him while offering Carol a false sympathetic smile.

“Why don’t you have him wait in your car while you order some takeout. How would that be, Honey?”

Carol’s face darkened. “I think instead we’ll just sit at that booth over there away from everyone. How would that be, Honey?”

She led Jim as she took a step forward. The cashier moved quickly to block them. The waitress moved also and looked like she was ready for a brawl, her hands planted firmly on her hips to show off large forearms. A couple of truck drivers at the counter stood up and also took an uneasy step towards them.

“Miss, why don’t you just make this easy for everyone. You don’t want the police being called, do you?”

Jim could sense the violence growing in Carol. Her hands were clenched at her side, thin veins revealing themselves along her neck. In another few seconds she’d be flying at this woman who outweighed her by a good eighty pounds. That was the thing with Carol, she was as fiercely protective and loyal as they came. Even though she was five foot one and maybe ninety-five pounds when soaking wet, she’d go at them like a hellcat. Using what little strength he had left, he pulled her away and forced her through the entrance door and outside.

“Don’t,” he pleaded.

“Fuck them. Who the fuck are they to tell you you can’t go in there?”

“Babe, it’s not worth it. I’m going back to the car. You go in there and get something to eat, okay?”

She was too furious to talk at first. Sputtering, she forced out, “How about I just throw a brick through their front window!”

“Babe…”

“Or better yet, how about you slaughtering all those fucking assholes in there! While you’re doing that I could cook myself something on their grill, and we could both be eating together.”

“Babe…”

“Why not?”

“Come on. Be serious. I’m not going to do that.”

She was steaming, her dark eyes hot and angry. “That fat cow bitch. She’d deserve to have you rip her throat out. She probably thinks you have AIDS. The bitch.”

Jim smiled thinly. “Maybe she thinks I have the bubonic plague. It doesn’t matter. You go back in there and get yourself something to eat. I’ll wait.”

“Fuck them. We’ll find another place.”

She stumbled, dizzy, her eyes losing focus. This time Jim helped her steady herself. Hesitantly, she brought a hand up to her temple.

Jim gave her a patient smile. “Any place we go is going to act the same. You need to eat. I’ll be fine.”

Carol looked like she wanted to argue, but she also looked hungry and very pale. She suffered from hypoglycemia and her stumbling and dizziness were a clear sign she needed food badly. Jim thought he could hear her heart palpitating. She didn’t have time to start searching for another place to eat—there was no arguing that, so she relented, first walking him back to the car to make sure he made it okay, then heading back to the diner. Jim closed his eyes. Lowering his forehead into his hands, he felt the cold clamminess of his skin. Even though it seemed to him like he was burning up, his skin was so damn cold to the touch—like he was a month-old corpse. His skin always felt that way. He wondered how Carol stood it.

God he hurt.

God he was hungry.

To focus his thoughts away from the pain, he tried to hold Carol’s image in his mind. She was so damn beautiful. Long black hair that fell past her shoulders, her small heart-shaped face dominated by the most expressive dark brown eyes he’d ever seen. Those eyes could fill up so intensely with emotion, and when she’d look at him a certain way he’d get weak enough in the knees that they would start to buckle.

God she was beautiful…

She was only nineteen when they met. Three years later she looked so much older than she should’ve. World weary. That was the thought that came to mind. There was a tragic quality to her beauty now; her face more gaunt than it should be, thin strands of white occasionally showing up in her dark black hair. She’d pull them out when she’d see them—not out of vanity, but simply trying to keep him from noticing; afraid that if he knew how much he was aging her he might leave her. He couldn’t leave her, though. As much as he needed human blood to survive, he needed her presence even more. She was more addictive than any drug. He needed his daily fix of her—he needed to feel her small warm body against his at night, the side of her face resting against his shoulder and her thin legs draped over his body. The virus had left him with a highly acute sense of hearing and he needed to hear the soft pattering of her heart. He didn’t think he could stay sane without it. For her sake, he would risk it except he knew that she held the same addiction to him; that it would be just as soul crushing for her if they separated. For better or worse, they were each other’s soul mates, and as much as he wanted a better life for her he couldn’t inflict that kind of pain on her by leaving, not unless he thought she could survive and be okay some day. Somehow he knew she wouldn’t. That turned out to be the most damning curse of his infection.

His thoughts drifted to when they met. It was right after all that bizarre shit with Serena. He had somehow gotten out of New York in one piece and was trolling the mean streets of Newark half-crazed from hunger when he heard Carol screaming for help. She was two blocks away and had been dragged beneath an underpass bridge by a leather and chain jacketed, tattoo-encrusted street thug. The thug was more than twice Carol’s size and held a dirty rag against her face which mostly muffled her screams. Still, she fought like hell while he tried to bend her over and rip off her panties, her skirt already having been thrown to the ground. In a few heartbeats Jim was there, pulling the thug away from Carol, and at the same time yelling at her to get away from them. She collected her torn skirt but she didn’t run away, and Jim understood why she stayed there and watched. Even in the crazed, wild state he was in, he felt the connection with her when their eyes met. He had the same immediate longing for her as she did for him.

But he needed to feed.

The thug looked confused that someone as thin as Jim could lift him with one hand so effortlessly off the ground, especially since he outweighed Jim by a good sixty pounds. Up close the thug was ugly as sin; pockmarked, bald—and for a short moment before he had edged his switchblade out of his pants pocket—as scared-looking as any little kid had ever been.

Once the blade was open and the moonlight reflected off of it that changed and the thug transformed back to the brutish animal he was. Jim was grateful for that. It made it easier for him to do what he had to. He didn’t give him a chance to use the knife; instead he crushed every bone in the thug’s hand and sent the blade falling harmlessly to the ground—not that the thug would’ve been able to do much with it anyway. After that the skull was next.

While the thug lay as a lump of dead meat on the ground, Jim ripped open his throat and drank until the buzzing in his mind died down. He was ashamed doing this in front of this beautiful dark-haired girl but he couldn’t help it. He desperately needed to feed. So while she stood and watched, he submerged himself in gore. When he was done feeding he remained squatting over the dead body, frozen, wanting to run away but unable to move. He felt Carol standing behind him, could feel a moist heat coming off her body. They were like that for minutes until she touched him on the shoulder. When he turned and looked into her eyes he knew he was lost—he knew they both were…

* * * * *

A dog’s high-pitched whining knocked him out of his thoughts. A pickup truck had pulled up next to him and a Rottweiler inside the cab was going nuts, its paws scraping against the passenger-side window in a frantic attempt to break itself free. The owner, a big beefy guy with a buzz cut and goatee, looked like he had his hands full trying to subdue his dog. He yelled out orders for the animal to heel, all of which the Rottweiler ignored. After some struggling he got the dog on a leash. When he opened the passenger door, the dog shot out as if from a cannon and nearly dragged the owner onto the pavement. Cursing, he righted himself and, as his eyes met Jim’s, he shot Jim a pissed-off look as if he were blaming Jim for his dog’s bad behavior. Sonofabitch, the guy was perceptive, because it wasn’t as irrational as one would think. Jim knew that the dog’s reaction had nothing to do with fear but an odor that fell within the spectrum a dog could pick up but humans couldn’t. As best he could figure out, the virus caused a change in his body chemistry that resulted in the emission of an odor that affected dogs, along with a host of other animals and insects, the same way that mustard gas affected humans. They couldn’t help themselves with the way they reacted to it—they’d do anything to try and escape it.

Jim watched as the Rottweiler strained on its leash and pulled the owner away. The man looked like he wanted to tie his dog up outside the diner, but after some more struggling he gave up and let the dog go inside with him. Before the door closed behind him, the man turned and shot Jim one last enraged look.

The incident made him think of his old dog, Buster, a beautiful almost pure white Bull Terrier with only a few black smudges on his ears and some pink on the tip of his nose. That breed is so damn loyal, and as long as they have physical contact with you they’re content. Before joining the army he gave the dog to his sister, April. He often thought about Buster, wondering if he could still be alive, and if he were, whether he’d recognize him. In his mind’s eye he could imagine Buster whining in agony but still crawling over to him so that he could lay against his feet. Thinking about Buster reminded him of his previous life. It seemed so long ago now. A different lifetime ago. To think at one time he had been a human being…

The noise of a door slamming shut distracted him. Carol had left the diner, her face a hard white, a bag clutched tightly in her fist. She tried to smile when she saw Jim, but it didn’t stick. She stormed her way to their car and banged the door open, then slid into the driver’s seat.

“Those assholes. It’s okay for them to let some flea-bitten mutt walk in there without any argument, but you they treat worse than a dog. I want to find a payphone. I’m going to call the Department of Health and see those assholes shut down!”

“Babe, it’s not worth it.”

“You should’ve seen the way that dog was wheezing and drooling at the mouth. That’s okay with them. But with you, a little sweat… Goddamn it! I really want to report them! You know what that bitch cashier had the fucking nerve to tell me? That it’s customary to leave a tip for takeout food. I wanted to shove the change down her throat!”

“Babe…”

“I’m so angry right now.”

Massive understatement…

Her lips curled up and nearly disappeared as she smiled a bare-fanged smile. Straight but slightly yellowed teeth showed through it. Shaking her head, she pulled a cheeseburger from the paper bag, unwrapped it and took an angry bite out of the burger.

“You’re not going to enjoy your food if you eat angry like this.”

“I’m not going to enjoy this greasy shit no matter how I eat it.” She took a hesitant look at Jim and apologized. “I’m sorry. God, I know with the way you’re feeling you don’t need me to act this way. I just can’t help it. I hate that they think they can treat you like this.”

“I know.”

She turned to give the diner one last angry stare. “Fuck them. Let’s just get away from this dump. The quicker we find a motel, the quicker you can lie down.”

She handed Jim the rest of her food to hold, then with the cheeseburger in one hand and gripping the steering wheel in the other, she put the car in reverse, hit the gas, and nearly spun out backing out. Sending up a cloud of dust, she shoved the car in drive, spun the wheels some more and, with her foot heavy on the gas, sped out of the parking lot and back onto 90 East nearly sideswiping a minivan. Fortunately the driver was too startled to honk or give her the finger.

“Are you okay?” Jim asked.

“Yeah, I just need a minute.” She hesitated for a moment, then asked how he was feeling.

“Better.”

She accepted the lie, but gave him a long uneasy glance as she took a bite of her burger.

“We’ll find a motel soon,” she said.

Jim nodded. He dug out of the paper bag a container of French Fries so she could eat them while wolfing down the burger. He knew she liked ketchup on her fries. He took a couple of packets, struggled for a bit, but got them open, and spread the ketchup on the fries. When she was done with the food, he handed her a chocolate shake. At least she’d have to take her time drinking that. Maybe she’d even end up tasting it. Jim turned the radio back on and found a hip hop station. She started to argue that he should find a classic rock and roll station for himself, but he told her this was what he wanted to listen to. She didn’t put up too much of a fight. She needed something to take the edge off her anger and listening to her music usually did the trick. He closed his eyes and tried to keep her from seeing how much he was hurting.

It was an hour later that she drove past the airport and then a row of strip clubs before pulling into the parking lot of a cheap motor lodge inside the Brook Park area of Cleveland. A sign out front advertised king-sized waterbeds, but other than that the motor lodge seemed typical for where they’d been staying since going on the run. Two stories, and mostly a grim dirty-looking concrete eyesore. The type of place that usually had shag carpeting from the seventies and a few mass-produced uninspired water colors hung on the walls. It was also the type of place where the furniture was bolted down, and more likely than not, had a bedspread growing more germ cultures on it than a lab full of Petri dishes—and if you were smart you didn’t lie down on it; if you were even smarter you’d cover your hand with something when you removed it from the bed. Also you’d keep your shoes on at night so you wouldn’t step on any needles left behind by one of the previous occupants. Carol sighed as she looked at the building. She gave Jim’s hand a quick squeeze, then left the car so she could rent them a room. When she got to the front office door, she turned to give him a wistful smile before disappearing inside. Five minutes later she came out of the office with key in hand.

“Forty-nine dollars a night for this rattrap,” she told Jim when she got back to the car.

“Sounds like a bargain.”

“Yeah, I just hope it’s not infested with bedbugs.”

Jim couldn’t help smiling. While there was a resurgence of bedbugs going on nationwide, and while this motor lodge seemed like a prime candidate to find an infestation, this was something they didn’t have to worry about. The only positive he could see about his infection was that blood-seeking insects like mosquitoes, bedbugs and lice reacted to his scent the same as dogs. If this dump did have bedbugs, they’d scatter as soon as he entered the room. Fuck, if he could only advertise he’d make a fortune clearing pests from motels and residences.

Carol brought him back to reality by mentioning how they were running low on cash.

“We’ll get some more soon.”

“We’d better. Three nights here and we’re broke.”

Jim nodded, then moved slowly as he pulled himself out of the car. Carol looked on, her hard smile turning fragile. She grabbed a suitcase—they’d been traveling light with only a couple of changes of clothing each—and walked slowly to keep pace with him so she’d be able to reach out to him in case he stumbled. She had gotten them a room on the first floor knowing he’d have trouble now with the stairs. The room did have a king-sized waterbed, but other than that it was as Jim expected; dirty, dingy, the walls concrete cinderblock, the ceiling water-stained and the furniture looking like it had been picked out of the city dump. It also had the unmistakable musty smell of a gym locker-room. Jim made it to a cheap padded wooden chair, dragged it away from the window and collapsed in it. Carol moved quickly to close the blinds. The room darkened enough to where Jim no longer felt like a fire was raging under his skin. He breathed a little easier, but now more than anything it was his hunger overwhelming him.

Carol pulled the bedspread off and kicked it away into a corner, then opened the suitcase and removed a small medical kit from her nursing school days. From inside of it she took out a rubber hose and a syringe. She wrapped the hose tightly around her upper arm, then walked over to Jim and sat in his lap while he pulled the hose even tighter and tied it. She walked back to her medical kit, sat down on the bed and flicked on her arm until she could spot a vein. She had such thin arms, and it was hard for her to locate a good vein. Once she had one, she pushed in the syringe and took a blood sample, her face a complete blank as she did this. Jim kept his eyes squeezed shut. He couldn’t risk seeing blood now, not in the state he was in. He heard her remove the plastic vial from within the syringe, then the rush of blood filling up a second vial as she took another blood sample. After a minute or so, he could hear the hose being untied, and then the door opening and closing. He was ashamed of the fact that he was salivating.

When Carol returned, she brought an ice bucket with her. On the bottom of the bucket covered with ice were her two blood samples. He’d have to wait until later to drink them—while there was far less than a pint of blood in those two samples, it would still revitalize him enough to give him the strength for what he needed to do. If he drank it now, though, it would make him want to keep feeding until he was satiated. It would be too dangerous. Carol knew this also. She placed the ice bucket in a drawer so it would be out of sight. Then she helped him out of the chair and onto the bed. While he lay flat on his back, she sidled up next to him and rested her cheek on his stomach and took hold of his arm so she could wrap it around her shoulders.

They lay together like that for several minutes before she spoke.

“Try and get some sleep, Darling,” she whispered. “In a few hours it will be dark. You’ll be able to feed then.”

He nodded, his chin moving up and down a fraction of an inch.

“It’s too bad you can’t feed on infected blood,” she said, sighing softly. “Otherwise you could just infect me and we could feed off of each other forever. How would that be?”

Again, he nodded because there was no harm in doing so. The virus changed a person’s blood chemistry, making drinking it intolerable to an infected vampire. Early on in his infection while in a half-dream-like state and without any real conscious awareness—only his hunger driving him—he had tried feeding on Serena. Only a bare taste of her blood left him as sick as a dog. Serena got a kick out of it, then explained the ropes to him while his body was wracked with dry heaves. It didn’t matter, though. Even if he could consume infected blood, he’d rather cut out his own heart than infect Carol.

Carol moved her hand lightly over Jim’s chest, trying to soothe him. “Sleep, my darling,” she whispered. “Just a few more hours…”

###

About the author:

Dave Zeltserman lives in the Boston area with his wife, Judy, and his short crime fiction has been published in many venues. His third novel, Small Crimes, was named by National Public Radio as one of the 5 best crime and mystery novels of 2008. His novel, Pariah, was named by the Washington Post as one of the best books of 2009. Killer, the 3rd book in his 'man out of prison' noir trilogy will be published in the US this May. His upcoming novel, Outsourced, is currently in development by Impact Pictures and Constantin Film.

Connect with Me Online:

My website: http://www.davezeltserman.com

My blog: http://smallcrimes-novel.blogspot.com

Advance Praise for The Caretaker of Lorne Field

"Superb mix of humor and horror" Publishers Weekly, starred review

“superbly crafted horror story" Booklist

“delicious horror-ish novel” Newsday

“The Caretaker of Lorne Field is a wonderfully weird, gritty, and pitch-dark legend, perfect for New England. Weaved in the compulsively readable narrative is a heavy dose of our current society's meanness, unease, and ambiguity: kind of a nightmare-noir zeitgeist. The thing of it is, the reader is never safe in Dave Zeltserman's hands. I love that. You should too.” Paul Tremblay

Praise for Small Crimes:

"There's a new name to add to the pantheon of the sons and daughters of Cain: Dave Zeltserman." NPR's Top 5 Crime and Mystery Novels of 2008

"Zeltserman's breakthrough third crime novel deserves comparison with the best of James Ellroy", Publisher's Weekly, starred review

"A Jim Thompson mentality on a Norman Rockwell setting... 'Small Crimes' is a strong piece of work, lean and spare, but muscular where a noir novel should be, with a strong central character whom we alternately admire and despise." Boston Globe

Praise for Pariah:

"A doozy of a doom-laden crime story that not only makes merry with the justice system but also satirizes the publishing industry" Washington Post, Best Books of 2009

“Sheer astounding writing” Ken Bruen

"PARIAH is sure to catapult Zeltserman head and shoulders above other Boston authors. This is not only a great crime book, but a gripping read that will crossover to allow greater exposure for this rising talent." Bruce Grossman, Bookgasm

Praise for Killer:

"Spare prose and assured pacing place this above most other contemporary noirs." Publisher's Weekly

"With graphic imagery and exciting twists, this novel is impossible to put down and has a surprising ending. A brilliant read" Aberdeen Press & Journal

"This novel is everything hard-boiled fiction should be - compact, direct and disciplined, and concerned with humans rather than stereotypes. It is also, for all its violent subject matter, a quietly told story, which makes its tension all the more intense" Mat Coward, Morning Star