“When?”
“Tomorrow maybe, the next day. I don’t know. I’ll go back to work tomorrow or the next day.”
“I’m sorry about your friend,” she said as she brushed her lips across my cheek. “Truly sorry. Do you think there’s any connection?”
“No,” I lied, “I don’t think so.”
“Dick told me his name, but I’ve forgotten.”
“Simon,” I said, “Simon Rome.” Buried at county expense, his grave unmarked, his death unavenged.
And with his name, my safe world ended, my castle came tumbling down into the stagnant waters of the moat, and in confusion it began all over again, all the questions, those with no answers, those with too many.
—
The next morning I woke early, showered and shaved, then tried to eat, but my appetite failed me. The bacon smelled like dead pork and the eggs accused me with their fierce yellow glare. I had a piece of toast and a shot of whiskey in my coffee, drank the coffee and smoked a cigarette in the bedroom doorway, watched the lady sleep, wondered where to begin, how to keep the lady in my bed on a more permanent basis.
But I didn’t know where to begin.
What would Simon say, I wondered, thinking he’d probably say Have another drink and forget about it, dumb-ass, which sounded good to me. For a moment. Then I realized how much I missed the old fart already. At least I was smart enough to know that. And what else did I know? The man in the alley saying I wasn’t supposed to be killed, which meant that somebody didn’t want me poking around. But around what? The Duffy kid’s death? Simon’s? Elton Crider’s? Muffin’s frame? Then I remembered that I hadn’t returned Muffin’s call, which I promised myself I would do just as soon as I passed a pay telephone.
The kid’s death had to be the beginning, but I couldn’t make myself believe that it had been anything other than the old accidentally-on-purpose death. Any other thing was too complicated a way to kill the Duffy kid. If somebody wanted him dead, there were much more certain ways. Still, somebody wanted me in the hospital and out of the way. Somebody had gone to the trouble to shove Simon down those stairs and steal his notebook. Maybe Jamison had the notebook, though. Then why did he hide the pencil from me? No, somebody had taken the notebook. A not-so-smart somebody. As it had occurred to me before, a smart man would have taken just the pages with notes and not the whole thing, so he had to be either dumb or excited, an amateur. And what had Reese said about the heroin dealer? An amateur. Just like me. But why couldn’t Jamison come up with the dealer? Just for that reason. Which meant I was going to have the same problem.
So have another drink and forget about it.
But standing there in the doorway, watching the lady sleep, I knew I couldn’t get enough drinks in my stomach to make my mind forget about it at all. My major problem, of course, was going to be the fact that I had neither training nor experience as a detective, no matter what it said on my license. For God’s sake, I didn’t even read mystery novels because they always seemed too complicated. As a minion of justice or vengeance, I just didn’t make it. But I remembered something Muffin had told me once as I tried to convince him he should live the straight life. He told me that if I wasn’t a cop, I’d be a crook, which I knew immediately to be the truth. I wasn’t about to sell things or clerk in a store or teach children not to suck eggs or even bartend. But knowing that didn’t help either.
Another drink, forget it.
I was just about to get mad when I heard tires crunching down the gravel of my driveway. I went to the door before whoever it was could ring the doorbell and wake Helen. When I opened the door, I saw Dick’s van stopped in the driveway. He sat behind the seat, peering through the windshield toward the house. I waved at him, and he got out. We met in the middle of the lawn and shook hands gravely, then he smiled.
“You look terrible, old buddy. Happy but terrible,” he said, which sounded strange, since I didn’t feel happy at all.
“Yeah.”
“You survived, huh?”
“Looks like it. Hey, man, thanks.”
“For what?”
“Bringing me home. Calling her.”
“She called me, man.”
“Thanks anyway.”
“It’s nothing,” he said, looking away. “How’s it going?”
“What?”
“You know. Everything. The two of you.”
“All right, I guess. Nothing’s settled,” I said, thinking that it might be a long time before anything was. “We haven’t talked about it much.”
“Yeah, I understand,” he said, watching his feet. “Say, man, I’m sorry as hell about—about Simon.”
“It happens,” I said, wondering why I was so cold about it.
“Yeah. I thought it was going to happen to you, old buddy. When you started puking blood, I thought it was all over. Never seen you that far gone, man.”
“Never been that far gone,” I admitted.
“What happened?” he asked casually.
Something was wrong. I didn’t know what it was for a moment, then I realized that I was suspicious of Dick without knowing what the hell for. I glanced at his van. It was new and expensive, and I wondered how much he’d paid for it, where he’d gotten the money. Then I thought, Don’t be silly. My God, the next thing would be me suspecting Jamison of being the policeman Reese thought probably had provided the heroin from an evidence locker. I couldn’t go around suspecting everybody. That would be crazy.
“Well, you don’t have to tell me, man. It’s not any of my business,” Dick said.
“Sorry, man, but I’m not all here yet. I don’t know what happened. Maybe Simon, maybe the beating…” Maybe Helen closing her motel door in my face. “I don’t know.”
“Feel pretty bad about that dude in the alley, huh?” he asked, a sly and nervous edge to his voice. There it was. He wanted to know what it felt like to kill a man. They always do. And it would be a long time before he could look at me without thinking about that.
“No, man, I don’t feel bad at all,” I said.
“Oh.”
“I was full of whiskey and speed and had just seen Simon spitted and had just had the living shit beat out of me, so I didn’t feel anything, man, it’s like it happened to somebody else,” I said.
“Yeah, I guess so,” he said, not believing a word of it. “Say, man, I want to apologize for blowing up at you—when you called me. I’m sorry. Helen—she had—”
“That’s all right,” I interrupted. “Forget about it.”
“Well, I don’t know.”
“Have a drink and forget about it,” I said, smiling.
“Sure,” he said, then glanced at me, returned the smile. “Hey, man, let’s play handball sometime after— Hey, good morning!” he added, shouting over my shoulder.
Helen had come to the front door, the green robe shining darkly in the morning shade. She squinted, then waved. Watching the two of them, I waited for a rush of jealousy and anger. But only a trickle of irritation came.
“She’s a good lady, man. I’m sorry for confusing things and I want to wish you two the best,” he said, almost formally.
“Thanks.”
“And, hey, I’ll see you on the courts, okay?”
“Sure.”
“Take care, man,” he said, then went back to his van and drove quickly away. I guess I didn’t like the exit.
“What did he want?” Helen asked as I walked up the steps.
“I don’t know. Maybe he was looking for the back door.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing,” I said, the irritation quickly spent. “It was a cheap shot. I’m sorry.”
“No, you’re not,” she said, angry now.
“Yes, I am sorry.”
“Then why’d you say that?”
“I don’t know. Hell, I don’t know why I do anything. But I am sorry.”
“Well, you should be.”
“Don’t do this,” I said.
“I didn’t start it,” she said, then left me at the door.
When I got to the bedroom, she had hidden beneath a tangled heap of bedclothes.
“Are you going to be here when I get back?” I asked as I picked up the bloody windbreaker.
“Where are you going?” she asked, rising suddenly from the covers.
“To work.”
“In that thing?”
“It matches my face, lady. Are you going to be here when I get back?”
“I don’t know,” she answered, a petty whine in her voice. “How long will you be gone?”
“Until I get back.”
“What’s that mean?” she asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Then why’d you say it?”
“Oh, goddammit, I don’t know!”
“Well, you don’t have to shout at me,” she wailed, then fell sobbing among the sheets.
“I’m sorry!” I shouted. “And goddammit, don’t tell me I’m not!”
She looked up as if she was going to tell me just that, but the doorbell chimes rang like tin thunder.
“Goddammit,” I muttered and went to answer the door. The other plain-clothes detective stood on my porch, his thumbs hooked into his belt. He didn’t look any better than I felt. “What the hell do you want?”
“Hey, man, take it easy.”
“Sorry. What do you want?”
“Jamison asked me to drop by. He’s been calling you but he don’t get nothing but your answering service. He’d like to talk to you. This morning.”
“What’s he want?”
“Are you kidding? He never tells me nothing,” the detective muttered. “He thinks I’m dumb.”
“Yeah, me too,” I said, and we grinned at each other.
“He’s one hard son of a bitch to work for.”
“That’s what I heard.”
“I’m going down to the station, man, if you want to ride along.”
“That’s okay,” I said. “I’ll take my car. I’m headed downtown anyway.”
“Whatever.”
“Hey, I’m sorry—about—I guess it’s called being rude.”
“No sweat. You having a fight with your wife?”
“Something like that,” I said.
“Figures. That’s the way I’m gonna get it, man, one of these days. I’ll knock on a door in the middle of a family altercation and some goddamned woman’ll blow me away.”
“It happens. I got flattened with a cast-iron skillet once. Some broad called to complain that her boyfriend was beating on her head, but when I got there, they had made up. I arrested him anyway, but she got behind me. Took ten stitches in the back of my head.”
“Lucky she didn’t kill you, man,” he answered sadly.
“Yeah. Hey, did you guys ever find that old man’s notebook?”
“Naw. Goddamned Jamison had me sifting garbage for three days, but we never turned it up,” he said.
“Great job, huh?”
“Don’t you know it. Garbage and puke.”
“Huh?”
“Aw, we found some puke at the top of the stairs, and I had to scrape up a sample to compare it with the contents of the old man’s stomach.”
“Was it his?” I asked, trying not to act as if I cared.
“Naw. Belonged to some other wino. Nothing but brandy and gastric juices.”
“They make a brand on it?” I asked, but that pushed him over the line from shoptalk to nosiness.
“Ask Jamison, man. We closed the book on it.”
“Okay,” I said. “Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it. I loved being pumped,” he said, then looked worried. “Hey, you won’t say anything about this to Jamison, willya?”
“I hardly ever say anything to him.”
Fourteen
“That’s a great line-up you’ve got there,” I said to Jamison, “but a smart lawyer could hurt you with it.”
“What?”
“I know everybody in the line-up but the kid with the busted nose, and I’d bet money I’m supposed to know him,” I said, nodding at the line of cops and drunks. “So even if I recognized him, it wouldn’t hold up. You blew it, Jamison.”
“I’m tired,” he grunted, “and I was in a hurry. Goddamned, smart-ass lawyers.”
“That’s the legal system,” I said. “Who’s the kid?”
“Cousin of the dude you blew up. Albert Lucian Swartz. They call him Bubba.”
“Makes sense.”
“Yeah, well, he and his cousin are buddies, and they were seen together earlier in the evening. They both had five hundred dollars and some change in their pockets, which is too much for unemployed construction workers. Bubba’s got the broken nose, bruises and scrapes on his hands, and a bad bite on his shoulder, so we figure he was with his cousin when they jumped you.”
“Well, maybe he was, but I couldn’t tell you if he was or not.”
“Or wouldn’t, huh?”
“It was dark, they were behind me, and I was on the ground most of the time—”
“You stood up long enough to bite the dude, Milo. You oughta see it. I’ve seen some bad bites, but this one, Milo, it’s terrible.”
“I wish I could remember doing it but I don’t.”
“You don’t recognize him at all, huh?”
“No.”
“You wouldn’t lie to me, would you, Milo? Try to make this a private beef?”
“Do I look like I need a beef, private or otherwise?”
“No, you don’t,” he said, sounding almost happy. “But if you can’t identify this kid, we can’t go into court with it, and some people are going to be upset about that.”
“I can’t help that.”
“No. You probably can’t at that. That’s the way it goes,” he mused, slapping me on the shoulder. “Say, are you gonna be in your office for the next hour or so?”
“I don’t know. Why?”
“I might want to get in touch with you.”
“Why?”
“Just be there, Milo. In your private office. And don’t ask me why, okay?”
—
So I went to the other office and had another installment on breakfast, a beer and tomato juice, as I waited for Jamison. I didn’t like his mood. I couldn’t think of anything that would make Jamison happy that wouldn’t make me unhappy. I also couldn’t imagine why he wanted to meet in the other office, but as I thought about it I liked it. We could talk about things. Brandy, for instance, and vomit.
“You want a beer?” I asked him as he came in without knocking. “Or coffee?”
“Coffee,” he said as he sat down heavily at the table. “Black.”
“Coming right up, sir,” I said and went out to the bar and brought him back a cup of coffee. “Why are we, ah, meeting here?”
“I don’t trust you, Milo, you and your goddamned tape recorders and bugs and whatnot.”
“I’m hurt,” I said, and he smiled an odd little smile.
“Yeah.”
“What did you want?”
“Huh? Oh, to tell you that your property has been released. You can pick it up anytime. And here’s your automatic too,” he said, then took the pistol out of his belt and handed it to me. “Be careful, it’s loaded.”
“Thanks. But why didn’t you tell me at the station?”
“I forgot,” he said innocently.
“Then why not call me?”
“You said you were coming over here, and I knew you didn’t have a phone back here, so I walked over.” He talked like a man setting up an alibi.
“You’re covering your ass, Jamison. Why?”
“No, I really forgot. I’m getting old and tired.”
“Maybe you ought to look for an easier job.”
“Yeah,” he said, watching his coffee, “that’s true. I got an offer, you know, a birdnest on the ground. A small town in Idaho. Four patrolmen and a dispatcher who doubles as jailer on each shift. I’d be the chief, Milo. Good mo
ney, an easy life. All the violence there takes place in the home.”
“You gonna take it?”
“I don’t know yet. There are a few complications.”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Well, the kid’s only got one more year of high school and he’d sorta like to finish here, and I’d like to get this heroin dealer busted before I leave town. So I don’t know if I’ll take it or not.”
“Sounds good,” I said, “but you ain’t here for my advice about your employment.”
“That’s right.”
“So what do you want?”
“I wanted to talk to you, Milo. Unofficially, you understand. I want to know what you know about the Duffy kid and Simon’s death and anything else that might help, such as why you lied about not recognizing the Swartz kid.”
“You got it all wrong. I don’t know anything you don’t.”
“Now, don’t fuck me around on this, Milo,” he said, serious now. “I’ve seen more dead bodies in the past few weeks than I usually see in a year and that makes me unhappy, you understand. How long’s it been since you’ve had to watch a kid pulled out of the river with grappling hooks, huh? I didn’t like watching that, Milo, and I don’t want to have to think about it. It doesn’t make me happy. And, Milo, I want the man who brought smack into my town. I’m giving you a break; you can tell me here, and I won’t say a word about withholding evidence or obstruction, but if we go down to the station and you continue to bullshit me, you’re gonna take a fall. A bad one. You’re in over your head, Milo, caught between the rock and the hard place, and I’m giving you an easy way out. So you better take it.”
“What sorta crap is this?”
“Now, goddammit, listen to me. I’ve never broken a law in my life, not even when we were kids. I believe in the law, Milo, and the system and all that goes with it. I don’t make busts outside the law, I don’t make deals, but I want this dealer and I want him fast. The goddamned mayor has asked for state help, and I don’t like that, bringing state boys into my town.”
“It’s not your town, Jamison,” I said, and a burst of anger flashed across his face, but it ended nearly as quickly as it began, turning into what looked like resigned sadness.
The Wrong Case Page 22