“Hey,” I said, shaking her beneath the covers, “I’m going to town. This time I will be back.”
“Where are you going?” she asked, sitting up with a wonderfully sleepy and pleased smile.
“To work.”
“Not today,” she said, pulling me toward her, “not now.” Then she felt the pistol. “What’s that?” The smile fled.
“A pistol.”
“What’s it for?”
“Sometimes I carry it,” I answered as lightly as I could. “It makes me feel better when I’ve got a hangover.”
“You know,” she whispered, covering her open mouth with her hand. “I’m scared.”
“There’s nothing to be afraid of.”
“You know—who killed Raymond.”
“I think so, yes, but I’m not sure.”
“Are you going to kill them?” she asked, no longer afraid, her eyes narrow and mean.
“No.”
“Who is it?”
“Nobody you know.”
“Kill them,” she demanded, her teeth clenched tightly. “Kill him.”
“Don’t be silly,” I said. “I can’t go around killing people.”
“Don’t say that to me—my mother says that. I’m not silly—kill him.”
“Love, I can’t.”
“Then give me the gun,” she said, eyes blazing madly, “give me the gun.” She tried to reach beneath my windbreaker, but I grabbed her arms. “Turn me loose.”
“Hey, lady, settle down.”
“Do it!”
I released her hands, and she reached for the pistol again.
“Do it! For me!” she screamed, the words seeming to open the wounds in my face stitch by stitch, to pound like a stake into the center of my face, between my eyes. “For me!”
I shook her shoulders until she stopped, fighting off her hands, which clawed at my face and chest. The back of her hand brushed my nose, bringing tears. I pushed her down on the bed, shaking her harder, shoving her against the bed until the screams became sobs, until she stopped fighting.
“Hey, I’ll be back in a little while, okay?” I told her, but she ignored me, so I left her there, sobbing.
But as I opened the front door she screamed, “I won’t be here unless you do it!”
As I walked out to the rig I couldn’t tell why I was crying.
—
Not knowing what to think, I went to Mahoney’s and had another drink, trying again to forget it. But I couldn’t. I still saw those wild eyes, oddly familiar, that fractured face. I told myself I just didn’t understand her grief, that she would be all right by the time I went back. I did understand that I still felt terrible, so I cranked another hit of speed into my system, another pain pill, and another drink. A deep breath, then I was ready. I called Freddy from the pay phone in the bar, told him to go down to the house on Wild Rose Lane and tell Wanda that the game was over, that she had better head out.
“What’s this all about?” he asked.
“Don’t ask, Freddy. Just for once do what I tell you without asking, okay?”
“What the hell’s wrong with you, Milo? You sound like death warmed over.”
“Apt description, fat man. Just tell her and don’t answer any questions, then go back up the hill to see what she does. Okay?”
“You’re the boss,” he said, and for once I believed him.
I hung up and called the hunting camp to apologize to Muffin, to tell him that I had the man.
“Let me speak to your urban representative,” I told Muffin’s boss.
“Buddy, we don’t have no urban representative.”
“Goddammit, this is Milo. Let me talk to Muffin.”
“Nobody here by that name.”
“What’s wrong? They got a tap on your line?”
“No, Milo. I pay a creep like you good money to make sure, but I don’t know about your line.”
“I’m at a pay phone.”
“Why didn’t you say so?”
“I don’t know. Just let me talk to Muffin.”
“Can’t, man, he split last night.”
“Did he say where he was going?”
“Don’t be stupid all your life, Milo.”
“Okay. Did he leave a message?”
“Yeah, lemme see, here it is. Orphans have to adopt themselves eventually. What the hell’s that mean?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Probably means I should have never sent him to college.”
“Huh?”
“Nothing.”
“Say, Milo, there’s a problem.”
“What’s that?”
“Expenses. I fronted him a grand, he said you’d cover it. Familial duty, he called it, or something like that.”
“Okay,” I said, “it’s covered.”
“When?”
“As soon as I get up there.”
“Make it sooner, okay?”
“Fuck off.”
“Don’t talk to me like that, Milo,” he said pleasantly, “or I’ll have your legs broken.”
“I got the money in my pocket, but it’ll take me a couple of days to get loose down here.”
“Tomorrow will be fine.”
“The day after. Hey, I gotta deal for you.”
“What?”
“Two hundred television sets, color.”
“I don’t deal black-and-white, man, there ain’t no percentage in that. Where?”
“I want Muffin’s piece of the action.”
“Only if you deliever the sets, Milo.”
“No way.”
“Then twenty-five percent of what Muffin would have made.”
“No deal.”
“Fine,” he said and hung up before I could disagree.
As I walked back to the bar I wondered if I’d ever hear from Muffin, then decided that I probably would. I wished I had told him before he left that he and my natural son were equal heirs in my will, but then I thought better. No sense in passing on my mother’s unhappiness. I leaned on the bar and ordered a beer to sip while I waited for Freddy to call back, and I saw my face in the mirror. It wasn’t the face of a hero—no character, no dignity. Just the face of another drunk who had bitten off more than he could ever hope to chew, a face so battered and unhappy and bloated that not even Leo could save it with his camera.
“How’s Leo?” I asked the bartender.
“They moved him over to Duck Valley two days ago. Didn’t you know?” The state mental hospital was in the same valley as the prison. “He was in bad shape.”
“Did they say how long he had to stay?”
“Six months, a year maybe. Didn’t you see him?”
“No,” I said. “I’ve been busy.”
“Looks like it,” he said, handing me my beer, then going to answer the phone.
It was Freddy. Wanda had split from Wild Rose Lane without looking back. I didn’t want it to be Nickie, but it was, and the only thing I could find to be angry about was that he thought I would quit after a beating, and I guess I was only angry about that because he was right. Maybe that’s why I intended to go after him instead of calling Jamison. I told Freddy to come on and have a drink on me.
—
Waiting at the end of the bar for Nickie to walk through, I sat over a slow drink, but when he came in, he didn’t look surprised. Just tired and gray and drawn.
“How’s the boy, Milo? Feeling better?”
“Not too bad. How’s yourself?”
“Fine, fine,” he said, rubbing his stomach and mouthing a silent belch. “Let me buy you a drink. It’s a little early for me, but maybe I’ll have one too.” The bartender was busy at the other end, so Nickie went behind the bar and mixed the drinks. Mine was almost all whiskey. Mama DeGrumo watched him carefully from her perch, nodding once as our eyes met.
“What is it, Nickie?” she asked.
“A Canadian and water.”
“A double?”
“No, Mama. It’s on me anyway,” he answered, and
her register chugged through a ticket.
“What’s happening?” he asked as he slid onto the stool beside me.
“Trouble.”
“Huh? Oh, yeah, trouble everywhere these days, Milo. Sometimes I think the whole world’s gone crazy, you know. Even this town. This used to be a good town, you know, I can’t understand—”
“This is a different sort of trouble, Nickie. More specific.”
“Huh?” he asked, belching. “What’s that?”
“This lady you’ve had me tailing.”
“What’s the matter? I thought you—were gonna take a few days off,” he said, then pulled hard at his drink, swallowed air and burped. “Goddamned soda.”
“I went back to work sooner than I thought I would,” I said, “and let me tell you, Nickie, I haven’t caught this broad in the act yet, but I know she’s fucking around.”
“How—how do you know?”
“It’s my business, Nickie. I’ve been tailing horny broads all my life and I can smell it. Hell, Nickie, you’ve seen her, you can tell. All those bitches fuck around,” I said, trying to keep my voice sly and grimy, but having trouble controlling the speed rush that had just kicked into my nervous system, having trouble keeping from blowing his head off.
“You don’t—who— Did you catch her?” he stammered.
“Naw, I haven’t caught her yet, I told you that, but I will. She’s been giving me the slip, but I put a beeper on her car. I’ll catch her, I promise.”
“How many times did you see her?” he asked, like a man who didn’t want to know.
“Five, maybe six times. Once this morning, then just a few minutes ago. This broad’s slick, Nickie, she’s been around.”
“She gave you the slip just now?” He finished his drink and went around the bar. “Want another?”
“No, thanks,” I said. “Yeah, she took off five, maybe ten minutes ago. But like I said, I got a beeper on her car.”
“What’s that?”
“A transmitter. It sends out a signal so I can find her car.”
“I—I don’t understand—why…” He couldn’t finish. His hand went back to his stomach, then away, as if he could ignore the pain. “Goddamned soda.”
“Listen, we can catch her in the act. Right now. But I need some more money.”
“Huh?”
“Money, Nickie. This electronic crap is expensive to rent. I need five bills for a deposit and another one for the rent.”
“Five hundred dollars?”
“You’ll get that back. You said your friend didn’t care about the money, so what the hell do you care?”
“A few minutes ago, huh?” He asked, trying to hold his face together.
“Right. Just get the money, Nickie, and we got her ass-cold.”
“I—I gotta check—be right back,” he said, then walked away toward his office, his hand worrying his stomach, his boots slapping dully on the carpet.
I wanted Nickie in my rig, wanted to see his face when I told him that I knew. I thought about what Jamison had told me about Turkish wives and cats; the image of Nickie clawed into a puddle of flesh and blood by drowning cats didn’t bother me at all. I asked the bartender for another drink. He brought it with the sneer of the sober.
“It’s on Nickie,” I said.
He looked at me but didn’t speak.
“Are you deaf, asshole?” I asked, trembling again. He didn’t answer or change expressions, he just walked away when Nickie came back carrying a long white envelope in his quivering hand.
“Okay,” he said, “damn right. Bitch.” Then he moved close to me, shielding himself from Mama D. I wondered how he’d feel if he thought his wife had been unfaithful instead of his mistress. “Fucking whore,” he whispered. “How much you need?” He scratched his chest violently.
“Give it all to me.”
“Huh?”
“All of it, Nickie. You don’t need it?”
“Huh?”
“You’re dead, you fucking creep, dead,” I hissed and jerked the envelope out of his hand. His mouth opened, lips moving vaguely like undersea weeds caught in a current. “I’m dumb, Nickie, I’m so dumb that it’s taken me this long to come up with you. The only person in town who’s dumber than me is you, and you’re dead.”
I guess I’ll never know if I would have killed him. When I reached under my windbreaker for the automatic, Nickie’s face swelled up like a frog’s and his arms laced across his chest, his fingers ripping his shirt as they tried to get to the pain wired around his chest, his body leaning toward me, his face in mine, his breath shallow and hot against my skin. Then he straightened up, turned as if he was going to walk calmly away, and fell forward on his face with a thud that silenced the idle conversation in the bar.
I leaned over him, grabbed his jacket and flipped him over, shook him, telling him that he couldn’t die on me. But he did. Judging from the look on his relaxed face, he wasn’t all that unhappy about it.
I stood up to look around the bar. Two tourists were craning their necks from their bar stools, but they didn’t get up. The bartender had come to the end of the bar and was walking toward me, not looking at Nickie. I pointed my finger at him, but he didn’t stop, so I pointed the pistol, and he did. But Mama D. didn’t stop for anything. She was coming like a truck, I got out of her way, she fell upon Nickie’s body, screaming incoherently in Italian, holding Nickie’s face and covering it with kisses. I told the bartender to stay just where he was, then holstered the piece and walked out through the crowded lobby, bucking the people who were moving toward the bar to see what all the screaming was about. As I walked out, I could hear Mama D.’s moans bursting like bombs. I understood how she felt.
I was almost to my rig when I heard the first gunshot and the crash of plate glass falling to the sidewalk. I turned, like a fool, and saw Mama D. plowing through the lobby, waving a snub-nosed revolver and shedding people like wastepaper. Her first shot had taken out one of the lobby windows. As I watched she ran into the double doors like a fullback, flinging them aside, and waddled toward me as fast as she could, the revolver held unsteadily before her. I don’t think I’d ever seen her off her stool before, and certainly never in the sunlight. She was much shorter and fatter than I had realized, her mustache much darker. I didn’t think I was in much danger unless she got close enough to poke the revolver into my belly and pull the trigger. I wasn’t going to shoot back, so I climbed into my rig and drove away as she emptied the revolver in my direction.
She missed me, but she played hell with the tourist trade with those last five shots. She put bullets into a pickup camper and a station wagon in the parking lot and hit another station wagon in the radiator as it turned into the lot. Her fifth shot disappeared up Hell-Roaring Canyon, but her sixth found a human target—a fisherman from Schenectady, New York—in a pay phone booth half a block away on Main as he was telling his wife how good the fishing was out West.
As I drove around the stalled station wagon, I glanced into my rear-view mirror. Mama D. hadn’t given up, her chubby arms pumping as she tried to run, her right hand squeezing the empty revolver again and again as she chased me out of the parking lot and into the street. Her screaming mouth looked like a large black hole in her face. She had loved the poor bastard.
—
Later, I heard that she had followed me three blocks west on Main before the police finally caught her. She broke one patrolman’s jaw with the empty revolver, and the other had to use his billy to handle her.
Seventeen
Without thinking about it, I went downtown to the office, not to Mahoney’s, not home. I wanted to be alone, and nobody would look for me in the office. I wanted some time before I had to deal with Jamison. Without counting it, I put Nickie’s money in the safe along with that I had taken out for Muffin. Then I got the office bottle, propped my feet in the open north window, and stared up into the Diablos, trying to decide what I felt.
Nothing. Empty, tired, ill-used. Hung
over. Slightly nervous from all the drugs rattling around in my system. But oddly peaceful too. It was over, all over but the shouting. And when that was over, I wanted to go away for a long time. I didn’t care where, just out of town, away with my lady. Just like Nickie.
Poor Nickie. He hadn’t wanted much. Pocket money and a smattering of respect, to be able to buy a round of drinks, to have a woman that didn’t look like a hawk perched on a pig’s ass. Not too much for a man to ask. But what a way to go about it. Briefly, I wondered where in hell he had gotten the idea, how he had managed to buy the heroin. But that was Jamison’s worry, not mine.
I stood up and leaned out the window to see the bank clock. It had been a busy morning; it was barely noon. I sat back down, sipping whiskey, sliding gracefully into a calm sulk. Goddamned Nickie, Next Round Nickie wouldn’t be promising the drinks anymore. But there wasn’t too much pity for him. He hadn’t meant to, but he had released about five weeks of real madness in the town he loved. And he must have been terrified the whole time, skulking about Meriwether in a false beard and a wig and wrap-around sunglasses, frightened but feeling damned important, a real gangster loose on our streets. I guessed I’d never know if he had overloaded Raymond Duffy’s last fix, never know exactly how or why the kid died. Poor goddamned Nickie. Gathered up enough courage to shove a drunk old man down a stairway, then puking up his guts when he saw the result of that shove. I wondered, too, how he had gotten Elton Crider into the river. But that was Jamison’s worry. For the life of me, I couldn’t imagine Nickie killing anybody. He hadn’t the heart for it. Any more than I did. Poor dumb Nickie. It had never occurred to me, wouldn’t have in a thousand years, that he was hiring me just to get me out of the way. I believed him. But, of course, he believed me too. I didn’t know what that meant. He had handled everybody else on his own, but had hired help to handle me. I didn’t know if that meant he was afraid of me or thought me dumber than him. He wasn’t going to rise from the grave to explain it either. Sad Nickie. I imagined him honestly amazed and disgusted when the junkies he had fathered took up crime to feed their habits. Junkies in his town. And dead men stacked like logs. I counted them on my fingers. It took both hands. Nine dead men. Or eight men and one twelve-year-old boy. All, except for Nickie and the Duffy kid, innocent bystanders. Jesus, I thought, never underestimate a klutz.
The Wrong Case Page 26