Sam McCain - 02 - Wake Up Little Susie

by Ed Gorman

  Henry sat next to me and we watched the human parade roll past, the way it’s been rolling past since those French trappers of three hundred years ago came down the

  Mississippi.

  In their quiet way, the people here are fascinating, and Henry must agree because he sure was looking them over. There, for instance, was the Kennard family: quadruplets. Mother and father run ragged by them but proud all the same. There’s Denny

  Farnham. Lost both legs in Korea but came back here and opened up his own service garage.

  He takes care of my Ford for me, and it’s damned good care. There’s Mike Braly. He runs a little flower shop and a lot of people whisper he’s a queer because he’s forty-two and never been married and always goes to Cedar Rapids or Iowa City on weekends—meeting other queers, is what some say. But he’s a good guy and just about everybody likes him. And then there’s Tom Holmes. When he was a senior in high school here he ran back an interception forty-eight yards to take us to State. The one and only time we’d ever been to State. It was a real accomplishment for a town of 25eajjj-plus, and even though it happened in ‘df, folks still treat him like a hero. I don’t care much for sports but I respect Tom. His two older brothers were killed in Italy and his dad lost a leg on the railroad where he’d worked as a brakeman, and yet despite those bad breaks Tom turned out to be a prosperous land speculator. And there was Mel Sager, full-blooded Mesquakie, a guitar player who has appeared with Western stars like Marty Robbins and Webb Pierce and Jim Reeves, who comes back to see his mom and his sister three-four times a year. And then there were the high school girls. We seem to get a bumper crop every year. Not just good-looking but smart too, going off to Iowa City or Des Moines or Cedar Rapids or Omaha to become nurses and bookkeepers and legal secretaries, many of them —bbt you and me—probably a lot smarter than the men they work for.

  Old folks needing relief from the hot sun, little kids needing bathrooms, sweet-faced junior high school girls needing attention from boys—a whole wonderful mix of people on this soft warm Indian-summer afternoon wandered around looking at the Edsels. Nice, easygoing, decent folks.

  I’ve got nothing against Chicago, but this is my home.

  Car premieres are big deals in towns like ours. They’re like opening nights. The big semis loaded with new cars roll in, and half the people in town start driving past the dealership for a glimpse. The cars are always covered up so you can only guess at how cool they look. Some of the semis come in late at night like they’re

  carrying military cargo the Russians might try and hijack. The dealers are smart enough to stage the premieres so there’s never a conflict. Chevy usually goes first, then Ford, then Chrysler, then the lesser lines: American Motors and, lately, Volkswagen.

  “Hello, Sam.”

  I’d seen her walking toward me: Mrs.

  Irene Keys. Hers was a kind of sadly biblical story. The rich girl with the plain face who was just naturally a target for girls and boys alike who wanted to bask in the rarefied air of that wealth. She learned early how to dress well. As she got older, her plain features had taken on a handsomeness not unlike a piece of Roman sculpture. There was great character in her face now. And she learned early to be friendly and seemingly open, though you sensed a ferocious intelligence she tried to hide. Wealth and superior intelligence would have been too much for most folks to handle. Even the Judge had remarked on how impressive having lunch was with Mrs. Keys. “She’s up on everything, McCain. You just don’t expect to find that in a hick town like this one.” Over the years, Mrs.

  Keys had several times asked me to visit her book club for a discussion. I guess because of my age, she thought I’d be able to explain the allure of Kerouac and Ginsberg and Corso and Ferlinghetti to small-town matrons.

  Today, she wore a tailored brown suit that nearly matched the hennaed rinse she’d had put in her hair. She carried a shopping bag with Keys Lincoln on its side.

  “Enjoying yourself, Sam?”

  “Very much.”

  “Dick hasn’t slept well for nearly a month, he’s been so worried about the Edsel.”

  I lied. “Well, from the things I hear, everybody sure seems to like it.”

  “Really? When I see people, they give me very evasive answers.”

  I grinned. “They probably don’t want to embarrass you with too much flattery.”

  She laughed. “Always ready to turn a bad moment aside with a good line, Sam. That’s why it’s so much fun having you around. Any chance I could get you to come to the book club discussion we’re having next month?”

  “Who’re you reading?”

  “Henry Miller.”

  I thought of all the words old Henry put in his books. “Really?”

  “Yes. And a couple of us have found words we-we aren’t exactly sure what they mean. We think we know but we’re not sure.”

  “The minister’s wife going to be there again?”

  She smiled. “She’s the one who suggested it.”

  “Well, why not? Just as long as Cliffie doesn’t bust us for possession of

  pornography.”

  “I’ll make sure Dick puts the fix

  in. Isn’t that what they call it when you bribe a policeman? A fix?”

  “That’s what you call it. And may I suggest, with Cliffie, that you bribe him with comics. He’s big on the Green Hornet.”

  “I’ll remind you later,” she said. “About Henry Miller.” She was still smiling. “But calling the chief Cliffie isn’t very nice, Sam.”

  The day made its appointed rounds. I watched the clouds for a time, remembering the Baudelaire poem, loosely translated as “The Wonderful Clouds.” So heartbreakingly beautiful. The day we studied it in class I was surrounded by people who absolutely didn’t give a damn about it, including the teaching assistant, who, after each poet we studied, always said, “I’ll still take Whitman.”

  I sat and daydreamed. I wished I could paint. Or be a serious pianist. Or be taller. Or handsome. Or be better endowed in the groin department. Or be a great novelist. Or really and truly believe in God. Or figure out a way to get Pamela to marry me. Or stumble over a bag containing $300 million that nobody claimed. You know, the usual modest daydreams.

  “I think I’ll buy one of these cars, McCain.”

  The voice was unmistakable: Judge Esme Anne Whitney. She was approaching the park bench where I was lighting a Lucky. Smokes always taste better after food, even half-finished ice-cream cones.

  “You’re kidding.”

  “I dated one of the Ford boys.”

  “So I heard.”

  “Would you tell Henry that there’s a

  lady here who would like to sit down?”

  “Henry, there’s a lady here who would like to sit down.”

  Henry didn’t budge. He’s one of

  God’s few creatures not intimidated by Judge Whitney.

  I helped him down. He didn’t look

  happy. He glared at the Judge, his little sailor’s cap angled cutely on his little head and waddled away.

  “I doubt he’s sanitary,” she said.

  “He’s a lot cleaner than some of my clients,” I said.

  “I’ve seen some of your clients,” she said, “and I agree.” She didn’t ask to sit down.

  She just sat down. Which was all right with me. I wanted some company, even if it was my boss.

  What you have to remember about Judge Whitney is that I don’t necessarily like her but then again I don’t necessarily not like her. And if that’s confusing for you, think how confusing it is for me.

  The Judge is a damned good-looking

  sixty-year-old woman but, because she’s usually so cold and baronial, people don’t see that.

  Fashion-model slender. Poised. Model-like too in the brazen jut of nose and the impudence of eyes and upper lip. Her gray hair is kept short but very feminine. And somehow her tortoiseshell eyeglasses are sexy. She’s also got a kid grin that shocks you the first couple of ti
mes you see it. She makes three pilgrimages a year to the Holy Land—the high-fashion stores of New York City—where she buys her clothes. You know, the French designers whose names you can’t pronounce at prices your entire block couldn’t afford if they pooled their money? Her choice in cigarettes runs to Gauloises and her choice in booze is brandy, which I could smell on her breath. Whatever you do, don’t mention Ayn Rand. Rand is her favorite author, and she can give you five extemporaneous hours on the topic. Her major was law but her minor was philosophy.

  “Just because you dated one of the Ford boys doesn’t mean you have to buy one.”

  “Well, if I don’t, who will?” she asked.

  She was peering down into the gray suede of her tiny purse, the same gray suede that accented certain spots of her gray sharkskin suit. “It’s clear that the ordinary people out here can’t see

  what an important and forward-thinking design concept this is.”

  She held a handful of four-color

  brochures, like a poker hand. Which is where that “important and forward-thinking design concept”

  came from.

  “The one mistake the Ford boys made was marketing this beautiful car to the masses,” she said.

  “It was clearly designed by and for the—well, more educated classes, shall we say.”

  In case you hadn’t figured it out yet, Esme Anne Whitney is a snob. After

  several brandies, the word rabble frequently falls from her lips.

  “Look what I found,” she said.

  Her kid grin. Those baby teeth of hers.

  She looked pretty cute.

  Until I realized that what she found were three rubber bands. She gets some kind of deep dark Freudian sexual pleasure out of shooting rubber bands at me and seeing if I can duck away in time.

  But she was only teasing. She dangled the rubber bands so that I could see them and put them back.

  She was a proper lady after all. Shooting rubber bands should only be done in the privacy of one’s office.

  “Damn.”

  “What?”

  “I’m out of cigarettes.”

  “Have one of mine.”

  “You smoke those American things.”

  “You smoke those French things.”

  “Oh, hell, McCain, give me one, I

  suppose.”

  I gave her one. I even struck the match for her.

  She inhaled deeply. Exhaled. “These are even worse than I remembered.” Then: “I clocked you yesterday.”

  “Clocked me?”

  “Loitering at Pamela’s desk.”

  “Oh.”

  “She’s mine, not yours, McCain. At least during business hours.”

  “I’ll try to watch it.”

  “You always say that. Now I’m afraid I’ll have to take action.”

  “Action?”

  “For every minute you stand out there mooning

  over her, I’m going to dock you a dollar.

  Given what I pay you, and given how long you moon, you could easily end up owing me money.”

  She dropped her Lucky on the ground and twisted it into shreds with the tip of her gray suede high-heeled shoe. “These are terrible. Just terrible.” She sat back and said, “Why don’t you marry that Mary Travers? It seems to be a much better fit. Pamela has …

  aspirations.”

  “Ah.”

  “What in God’s name does ah mean?”

  “It means that even though her family no longer has money, it once did. So you relate to her.”

  “Sometimes families lose their fortune and then regain it again.”

  “So I should stick with my kind and Pamela should stick with hers, is that it?”

  “No offense, McCain, but you’re a man of simple needs. And from what I can see, Mary Travers—who is very very pretty, by the way—is also a person of simple needs.”

  I was about to tell her how insulting her theory was—ffboth Mary and me—when I saw Dick Keys pushing through the crowd and shouting my name. He looked crazed. As a young man, he’d distinguished himself by flying more than sixty bombing missions as a tail gunner in World War Two. He was known for his charm, his self-possession.

  People were watching him now.

  Something was obviously wrong.

  He stumbled over somebody’s foot and practically landed on his face in front of me.

  “Sam, you have to help me,” he said, his breath coming in short gasps.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I’ll explain when we get there.”

  “Hello, Richard,” the Judge said

  loftily. “Or aren’t we speaking anymore?”

  He seemed to see her for the first time.

  “Oh, hi, Judge. God, I’m sorry,

  I’m just so—ccfused, I guess. I really need to borrow young McCain here, if you don’t mind.”

  “Consider him borrowed, Richard. But next time you could at least have the courtesy to say hello to me.” She was the only person who called him Richard. He apparently brought out the schoolmarm in her.

  “I will, Judge, I promise,” he

  said. And then: “C’mon, Sam. Hurry!”

  And we were off.

  It took us a good seven-eight minutes of broken-field running to get inside the service garage, where we were finally alone.

  “What’s going on, Dick?”

  He looked at me lost in grief. “It’s bad enough that everybody hates the Edsel grille because it looks like a woman’s vagina. That isn’t enough? Now I got a body on my hands.”

  I really thought he might start crying.

  Two

  The garage had six bays and smelled wonderfully of oil and grease and cleaning compound.

  There was no activity today, no wrenches clanging to the floor, no Hank Williams song on the radio, no Pepsi bottles yanked out of the nickel machine in the corner. It was Edsel Day, after all. Only heathens would work on a day like this.

  I looked around the silent garage wistfully.

  I’ve always wanted to be one of those manly men who can walk into a service garage and know exactly what to do. I’m terrible with hammers, saws, and screwdrivers. My dad learned my terrible secret when I was nine years old and he asked me to help him hang a pair of shutters my mom had bought at Woolworth’s. They were supposed to go on either side of the kitchen window.

  My dad held the shutter in place—which was the hard part of the job—while I was supposed to bang in the first couple of nails. I banged, all right —right through storm window and window alike. My mom jumped back from the sink, screaming, as glass icicles flew everywhere. From then dad always got my kid sister to help him with his carpentry projects.

  And that’s why I take my ragtop to Denny’s garage whenever anything goes wrong. I sure couldn’t fix it myself.

  “I need you to look at something, Sam.”

  “What is it?”

  “I’ll just let you see for yourself.”

  I looked at all the Rotary good service plaques he had mounted above the desk.

  If you’ve read any Sinclair Lewis—my undergraduate major was American Literature —y know the word booster. And boy, that was

  Dick. He belonged to everything—Rotary, Kiwanis, Eagles, Elks, Vfw,

  Masons, Chamber of Commerce, you name it—and he boosted everything too: high school sports, the new swimming pool, the new softball diamond, and stricter regulation of teenage drinking at both drive-in theaters. His people had come out here from New England in the early 1850’s.

  They brought a lot of good recipes and clean, admirable habits with them, including the principles of education with which the Iowa Territory established its first schools. And they brought along the dulcimer, an instrument till then unknown in these parts. The odd thing was, whenever you saw Dick with his fellow Rotarians or

  Kiwanians, he seemed apart from them. The smile touched the lips but never the eyes, and the eyes strayed constantly, looking out some window that was his al
one.

  “C’mon.” Then, as we started walking, he said, “You’ve got a private investigator’s license, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you do work for Judge Whitney?”

  “Yes I do.”

  He sighed. The handsome face looked a little fleshy and old. It was a strange feeling. He seemed older now than he had a few minutes ago. He was Jay Gatsby at fifty-five, and that’s no Jay Gatsby at all.

  He said, “There’s a dead girl in the trunk.”

  Three Edsels were lined along the rear wall, their trunk ends out. The colors of these three were as silly as the colors of those on the lot: exotic fruity colors that no

  self-respecting automobile should ever be.

  “I was just getting these ready for delivery,” he said. “That’s why they’re in here.” He looked paler, grimmer even than before.

  I wasn’t sure which trunk held the girl until we got close. A bloody handprint was on the fender of the center car, the peach-and-kiwi-colored one.

  “That’s my handprint, by the way.”

  Great. The Sykes clan that ran the town and thus the police department didn’t need any help being incompetent. But Dick was going to see they got it. I wondered what other parts

  of the crime scene he’d violated. He saw my expression. “I panicked, McCain. I

  reached in and touched her to make sure she was dead—”

  “That’s all right.” What the hell. He was having a bad enough day as it was. “The trunk open?”

  He nodded.

  I got down on my haunches and took my ballpoint out of my white button-down shirt.

  That style of shirt, chinos, and desert boots are my customary uniform. They give my baby face and diminutive stature at least a semblance of age.

  The tip of my ballpoint slid in nicely beneath the trunk catch. I delicately raised the lid. Then I stood up, my knees cracking, and looked inside.

  Next to me, Dick said, “She’s—”

  He didn’t finish his sentence. He hiccuped.

  “She certainly is.”

  I recognized her immediately: Susan Squires. Mary Travers had worked for her a couple of years. Susan was married to the then District Attorney, so they did a lot of entertaining and needed help around the house. Hence, a high school girl like Mary. Inexpensive and tirelessly hardworking. Even more, they were friends, confidantes. You’d see them downtown together, shopping and giggling like girlfriends. Susan told Mary virtually everything about her life.