Print the Legend: A Hector Lassiter novel

by Craig McDonald

  Hannah spent the morning re-reading A Moveable Feast. She had fallen in love with the book upon first reading. It had immediately become one of the books that had made a difference for Hannah MacArthur who wanted to be a fiction writer.

  She remembered the book as swooningly romantic. A love story of a poor but loving young American couple newly discovering an ancient evocative European city, full of interesting people and places and exquisite art and cuisine and nearly every writer and painter of consequence of the early twentieth century.

  This time, while her baby slept softly snoring at her side, Hannah read the book as Papa had intended, based on Hector’s memory of the original manuscript as he had read it in Cuba in 1959. She read the chapters in the sequence Hem had set them out, and she skipped over the discarded concluding chapter that Mary had restored for publication two years after its author’s death. It read as a very different book in that way, and now, knowing more of the biographical details of Papa’s life, Hannah read the romantic passages regarding his first marriage as sadly self-delusional or coldly ironic.

  The memoir emerged darker and more sardonic than she remembered, and it ended inconclusively with a mean-spirited and not particularly funny broadside at Scott Fitzgerald.

  Hannah thought of the book with the title Papa had set forth, and on whole, decided she preferred Mary’s version of the Feast. Hannah felt guilty for thinking so. But maybe Hector was wrong about Mary. When it came to nursing Papa’s long game, maybe Mary really knew best….

  Hannah favored her romantic memory of the book, and regretted re-reading it and ruining that memory.

  Mary canceled their afternoon interview, too.

  Hannah left Bridget with one of Mary’s maids, Renata, who had a three-month-old of her own and had offered to baby-sit on her days off when Hannah might want to devote full attention to Mary or her manuscript.

  Hannah decided to rent a bicycle from a sporting-goods shop.

  While the owner slipped into a back room to get more change, Hannah eyed the double-barreled shotgun the proprietor had been cleaning and left leaning again the counter.

  She thought about surreptitiously dipping her head down and taking the barrels into her mouth—just to see what it would be like—but Hannah’s imagination was strong and she could conjure up the likely sensations.

  And the blue-barrels looked fouler and harder and fatter and worse than the worst thing Hannah had ever taken into her mouth.

  The proprietor returned, smiling, and handed Hannah her change and a small, laminated map upon which he’d traced a shortened scenic route for her. From a next-door deli she bought sandwiches and a bottle of spring water, and stashed them in a small knapsack with her notebook and pen.

  Hannah stopped early for lunch under some trees several hundred yards before the turnoff into the Sun Valley parking lot. Her legs were already hurting her and she cursed herself again for letting her body go soft.

  She tried, fitfully, to get an opening chapter about Mary going in her own words, but found that it just wouldn’t come. Richard’s plan for the book was chronological. Hannah felt it better to lead with the true events of July 2, whatever they might be, and work back from there.

  A big crow landed close by, cocking its head and shifting its gaze from Hannah’s face to her sandwich, all the while cawing. Hannah tore off a corner of the ham sandwich and tossed it to the corbie craw. The crow picked it up with his black beak and tipped his head back, his oily black throat undulating as he swallowed the wheat bread.

  The crow then pecked at the meat and tomato—shaking its head side to side when it tasted honey-mustard. As the crow became more demanding, Hannah set her notebook aside and courted the bird’s interest—parceling out small morsels of sandwich and chips. She poured some of the spring water into a little receptacle she made of the sandwich’s waxed paper wrapping and set it down next to her. The big black bird ponderously hopped closer, watching Hannah with one black eye as it took the water in swift dips—its fast-moving black beak opening and closing repeatedly with each savored sip.

  When others of his kind came to claim a share of his discovery, the first bird cawed once angrily and shook out its black feathers. Hannah dubbed him “Wilson” as the black bird took wing.

  Finicky bastard.

  Back on the bike.

  Although Hannah couldn’t face her dead husband’s grave yet, she felt unaccountably compelled to visit the scene of the professor’s death.

  Hannah pedaled further up the gradual slope of Sun Valley Road, aware now of a pair of other bicyclists distantly trailing her.

  She passed the Sun Valley complex and the Dollar roads to the down-sloping, worn-through-weeds path to Trail Creek and the Hemingway Memorial—a simple bronze bust mounted on a stone pillar, set into a rock squatting in the center of the creek.

  Hannah, suddenly shaking and short of breath, found no trace of blood on the half-wet rocks in the stream on either side of the memorial. A small tree had fallen across Trail Creek, affording treacherous access to the tiny island of the stone memorial, and Hannah thought that perhaps Richard, drunk, had tried to catwalk across the wet log and lost his balance. Again, there was no sign of an accident—but of course one couldn’t chalk-outline a creek bed. And time had passed.

  Spooked, Hannah wiped damped palms down her jeans and climbed back on her bike, grateful the road sloped back down toward Sun Valley and strangely comforted by the brisk wind across her wind-burned face; glad for the fast, long, downhill glide back into town.

  She looked back over her shoulder to glance at the setting sun, and saw the man.

  Richard’s old stalker was trailing her on a bike: tall, thin. No sports jacket—a windbreaker, khaki shorts, and tennis shoes. His bony legs were sunburned. So were his cheeks. Same widow’s peak…same glasses, but now adorned with clip-on shades. Harry Jordan—the two-faced private eye.

  Instinctively, impulsively, Hannah slammed on the brakes, skidding to one side and nearly upending her bike.

  Jordan nearly collided with her, veering to one side and leaning down, into the wind, pedaling furiously. Hannah pointed the front wheel of her bike downhill and set off in pursuit. The man’s long bony legs were cranking. Hannah saw him crouch low, limiting his wind resistance. She did the same, leaning down low over the handlebars, pedaling furiously, the muscles in her thighs burning.

  They shot past the lodge, on the downhill run now, past grazing horses, down into town: intersections; cross traffic was picking up.

  And there was a semi, closing fast.

  The private eye made a suicidal push of the pedals and narrowly cleared the grill of the truck—its air horn blaring and eighteen wheels squealing.

  Hannah veered, hit the brakes, and jumped a curb. She felt the center of gravity shift as the back tire of her bike rose.

  Hannah threw herself to the right, trying to lay the bike down before she would go over the handlebars. She rolled across the pavement, bike bouncing behind her. Some pedestrian stooped to stop her before she smacked the brick wall of a pub.

  ***

  Bumps. Bruises.

  Blood and aching bones.

  The doctor found her elbow wasn’t broken, but still “worrisome.” He made it clear—she was to follow-up with him. Hannah promised to follow his advice to the letter.

  “Revenge has no more quenching effect on emotions than salt water on thirst.”

  — Walter Weckler

  48

  WRATH

  “I thought you’d still be at Mary’s.”

  He wasn’t to be distracted. Hector said, “Mary’s maid called her to say you’d been injured.”

  Hector checked Hannah’s bandages. “All this from a bike accident? I don’t buy that. What really happened, Hannah?”

  “I really wrecked a bike.” Hannah was nursing Bridget. Repositioning her daughter, Hannah winced. Because she was nursing, she’d had to refuse pain medication for her scrapes and bruises…still driven to forego anyth
ing she might lactate.

  “Tell me everything,” Hector said.

  She did that, watching the rage that her story stoked inside Hector. Hannah was unsettled by the focused anger she could see building inside him. Hector didn’t get red-faced or visibly angry, but his pale blue eyes narrowed…his voice grew cold. She’d never seen such concentrated hatred. He said once, “Harry Jordan. Well…. You’ll be okay here, for a time. I’m going out and end this.”

  Hannah said, “Where are you going?”

  “Better you don’t know. Please, trust me on this.”

  “Let’s call the police. I’ll file a report.”

  “Those bastards have already failed the mission: trust me on that. Trust me on the rest, too. Rest up, then I’ll buy you girls dinner when I get back.”

  He left quickly then. She heard him try the door from the outside, making sure it was locked. Then she heard his voice through the door: “Put that chain on the door, too, when you’re next up, Hannah.”

  ***

  They were on the deck of the Topping House. Buzzards wheeled overhead. Deer drank from the river.

  Mary said, “I will not be fucking lectured by you, Lasso.”

  “This isn’t a lecture, Mary,” Hector said. “This is a reading of the riot act before I get down to stopping this business on my terms. I can’t believe after our last talk that you still paid to have that son of a bitch follow us around town here. Christ, Mary —you’re like a distaff J. Edgar Hoover. I thought we were allies.”

  “And you’re a fucking pathetic mess, Lasso. Look at you, a man your age, sleeping with that young girl. You’re old enough to be her child’s great-grandfather. And she’s a distraction from this other—our campaign against Hoover.”

  “You nearly made that little baby an orphan having your private eye chase her down that road on that bike.”

  “Things got out of control. It wasn’t ever my intention to see Hannah hurt. I was just keeping everyone…honest. Making sure I didn’t get burned by anyone with hidden motives. Not again. That asshole, Harry, he just lost control. Went too far.”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Hector said. “Please. I’m giving you notice now, Mary: My next stop is to see Harry Jordan, your private eye. One way or another, your business relationship with that son of a bitch is over, starting right now. If you hire another to replace him, I’m going to take it very badly and very personally. I’ll come back here looking for satisfaction.”

  “Are you fucking threatening me, Hector? Nobody threatens me. Not anymore.”

  “Threats are cheap, Mary. I don’t waste time with threats. I serve it up cold.”

  Mary pursed her lips; her chin jutting. “Oh, fine, goddamn it. Just fine. Now just forget about that chickenshit private detective and mix yourself a strong delicious drink and set your ass down and let’s get to work on my book.”

  “Don’t want your booze and I have a promise to keep first.”

  “Forget Harry.”

  “Not in my nature.”

  ***

  Hector wondered if Mary had called to warn Harry Jordan that he was on his way over:

  Harry wasn’t answering his door, despite the fact his green Impala was still parked outside his hotel room. Hector knocked again, called, “Harry, open the goddamn door. It’ll go easier for you that way than the other.”

  Hector pounded the door again, looking around while he waited. He saw two faint footprints—partial, bloody footprints on the pavement on either side of his own feet.

  Hector carefully moved his feet, and frowning, cupped his hands to the glass of the front window to better see inside the hotel room.

  A body was on the floor. The face had been pulped—frenzied overkill. A bloodied baseball bat lay on the floor next to the body. The dead man had a brown widow’s peak…wore a blood-streaked nylon windbreaker familiar to Hector. Sure looked like what was left of Jordan….

  Hector suddenly wished he hadn’t stormed around in front of Hannah and Mary, issuing threats and promising violence against the dead man.

  This familiar voice, all authority, behind him: “Turn around slowly, Mr. Lassiter. You’re under arrest.” What, again?

  Hector did as he was told: Three local cops had guns aimed at his torso. Hector said, “What’s up, boys?”

  The too-familiar lead cop: “You’re under arrest on suspicion of murdering that man in there.”

  Hector cursed softly. Donovan-fucking-Creedy: As a writer and a nemesis he was a fucking one-trick pony. He said aloud, “For Christ’s sake, not again….”

  “Some people walk in the rain, others just get wet.”

  — Roger Miller

  49

  BOTTOMS UP

  Hector sat across from the chief of police. The top cop passed Hector his Pall Malls and Zippo. The cop got out his own pack of Lucky Strikes, then handed Hector a frosty bottle of Coca Cola. Hector looked at the last and shrugged. He said, “No rye?”

  “Not for this talk,” Chief Randy Paul said.

  Creedy stood behind the one-way glass window, willing Hector to take a sip from that bottle of Coke he’d arranged to provide Hector in lieu of coffee or water.

  “Let’s go over it again,” Chief Paul said.

  “I’d just gotten there,” Hector said. “Dust the damned doorknob, both knobs…I never even touched the son of a bitch. Hell, I don’t think I touched the glass peeking through the window to see that body there. Jesus, Chief, look at my clothes—do I look like I beat a man to death with a baseball bat? I’d be covered in blood spray if I had done that. There’s not even blood on my shoes’ soles.”

  Well, Creedy had to give Hector that one: Creedy’d brought along a change of clothes and showered before leaving the crime scene. He’d been bathed in Jordan’s blood.

  It was a crazy constellation of circumstances that had led to Lassiter’s arrest at the scene.

  Mary Hemingway’s low-rent private eye had been following Richard Paulson, and actually witnessed the scholar’s murder. Not realizing the forces he was dealing with, Harry Jordan had been dumb enough to try and shakedown Donovan Creedy—to blackmail him for the murder he had witnessed.

  Creedy knew Hector was spoiling to get at Jordan. So Creedy had decided to really take it to Jordan—make it look like a rage killing. Then he had dropped some of Lassiter’s carefully preserved Pall Mall butts around the crime scene.

  Hector showing up at the dead man’s room just minutes after Creedy had fled the scene and called the cops, fingering Hector, had been a delicious fluke…the kind of coincidence that would get you mocked if you used it in a thriller.

  Staring at the tainted soft drink, Creedy whispered, “Drink the fucking cola, Lassiter….”

  Once he did that, Lassiter would confess to the Baby Lindbergh killing if the question was put to him.

  Hector ground out his cigarette and began to fidget with the cola bottle. Creedy leaned in, crossing his fingers. Hector started to raise the bottle to his mouth, then shook his head and said to some question, “That’s a fucking lie. I was never in the goddamn room. I couldn’t have done this—again, I’m telling you, just call Mary Hemingway, she’ll back me up on this.”

  The interrogation room’s door opened. Some uniformed stooge leaned into his chief’s ear. The top cop cut out for about two minutes.

  Hector tried to make small talk with one of the flunky cops…tried to argue the case against himself with this young buzz-cut kid with a badge. Creedy figured Lassiter must really be sweating it if he was turning to this young idiot for help.

  Shaking his head, Hector picked up the Coke bottle and raised it to his mouth again. Creedy licked his own lips.

  Hector hesitated as the door opened again. “Okay, Lassiter, some new information has come to light.”

  The crime writer put down the unsampled Coke. The cop went to shake out another Lucky Strike and bumped the bottle with the back of his hand, spilling the cola across the table. Scooting back his chair to protect his
slacks, Hector said, “What the hell?”

  “Clumsy of me,” the cop said. “So sorry.”

  Creedy said “Fuck!”

  The chief said, “Us falsely arresting you is becoming a bad habit, Lassiter. Sorry.”

  Hector nodded. “It’s not a habit you’ll keep, brother. I mean to get out of this town, forever, and soon.”

  ***

  Chief Paul handed Hector his wallet and car keys. “Mary Hemingway made it clear you were with her when that bastard took his beating, just like you said she would. And that left no time to kill him and then clean up. Still, something hinky about you and all this. More funny? Mary asked me about a Fed named Donovan Creedy—wanted to know if he was on the scene here.”

  Hector nodded slowly. Thank God for Mary somehow showing some sand, even in her cups. “And was Creedy here? Maybe on the other side of that one-way glass?”

  The cop shrugged. “Mrs. Hemingway said if this Creedy was around, I absolutely shouldn’t let you drink anything.”

  Hector smiled thinly. Again, Mary was surprising him. He said, “I see. Now I owe you a drink, buddy.”

  ***

  Creedy stabbed two fingers into the chief’s chest. “You fucking rube! You had him! All those cigarette stubs of his. You saw his Pall Malls scattered around the scene. Those alone—”

  The top cop grabbed Creedy’s fingers and bent them back until Creedy winced and said, “Stop that…. Please.”

  Smiling, the old cop said, “You watch too much TV, G-man. Probably a third of the men in town smoke PMs. Other two-thirds are smoking Camels or my beloved Lucky Strikes. Now get out of here, you dirty son of a bitch, before I start doing my job you’re laughin’ at me for. My gut tells me I should arrest you for that man’s murder, ’cause I swear to Christ I make you as the killer. Maybe also of that poor girl we found in Lassiter’s tub a time back.”

  “Literature is a luxury; fiction is a necessity.”

  — GK Chesterton