Sam McCain - 02 - Wake Up Little Susie

by Ed Gorman

  contention that the Communists had been foisting fluoride on us as a way of seeing that our population declined, thus making us ripe for a takeover.

  The knock was timid.

  “Come in.”

  She appeared first: Linda Granger, rangy brunette. Her face was a portrait of good clean freckled midwestern carnality. Normally there was a big-kid grin, and the mischief in the blue eyes was lacerating in its promise of fun and frolic. She dressed well too. Her father was a Brit who’d been a pharmacist in Sussex before Adolf consulted his various astrologers and decided to start a world war. He worked here at the pharmacy until Old Man Reeves startled everybody by taking off for Vegas one night with the Widow Harper and getting hitched. The Reeveses now lived in La, from which they dispatched a blizzard of postcards about celebrities they happened to see. They had a running battle about Robert Taylor. Old Man Reeves insisted that Mr. Taylor had false teeth; Widow Harper angrily

  disagreed.

  Anyway, Linda’s father took over the pharmacy ten years ago, redecorated it, hooked up with the Rexall chain, and proceeded to make himself a wealthy and prominent local citizen.

  Today, Linda wore a tight green sweater, jeans, bobby socks, and cordovan penny loafers. That sparkle I always associated with her was gone. Her skin was pale, her eyes dulled, their rims red from crying.

  Jeff Cronin looked even worse than he had when I fished him out of the booth at Elmer’s Tap the other day and gave him a ride home: wrinkled white button-down shirt and blue trousers, two-day growth of beard, eyes that didn’t seem to focus. One or both of them smelled of tavern.

  “She’s kinda loaded,” he said.

  “Look who’s talking,” she said.

  “It was her idea to come over here, McCain, not mine.”

  “He doesn’t give a damn about our

  marriage, McCain. I do. That’s why I told him we should come.”

  I smiled. “I don’t think I’m

  following this.”

  After I jumped up and took the box holding the lie detector off one of the client chairs, I had them sit down.

  Cronin said, “You got a beer?”

  “I usually keep a quart in my pocket but I wore the wrong suit today.”

  “I need a beer.”

  “You’ve had enough beer,” she said. “Is this what it’ll be like being married to you?”

  “We’re not getting married, remember?

  There’s a little matter of you cheating on me.”

  Cronin had a quick temper. He was sliding the ammunition in the chamber now.

  She looked at me. Pleading. “Did he tell you why he isn’t marrying me?”

  “No. I guess he didn’t.”

  “Go on, then, tell him.”

  “You want him to know so bad, you tell him.”

  “No, you. I want you to hear how ridiculous this sounds in 1957.”

  For the first time, Cronin looked uncomfortable.

  His gaze fell away.

  “Go on,” she said.

  He said nothing.

  She said, “I spent a long night with Chip O’Donlon once when Jeff and I were broken up.”

  “I see.” Chip O’Donlon was a client of mine. Which didn’t save him from being an obnoxious idiot. He was a disgrace

  to dreamboats around the world.

  “They went all the way,” Cronin said miserably.

  “That’s not true, at least I don’t think it is.”

  “She doesn’t remember. She sleeps with a guy and she doesn’t even remember.”

  “I’m pretty sure I didn’t,

  McCain. But I wanted to be honest with Jeff.

  I wanted him to know everything about me. You know?”

  “Honest.” Cronin scoffed. “Some honest.

  We break up a couple of days, and she screws Chip O’Donlon.”

  “It was a month we were broken up,” she said, “and I’m seventy-five percent sure I didn’t sleep with him.”

  “That leaves twenty-five percent,” Cronin said. “And he’s telling everybody he did sleep with her.”

  “Gee,” she said, “a math whiz. And he figured it out all by his lonesome.”

  “So,” I said, “the problem is that your feelings are hurt that she spent time with O’Donlon?” I tried to sound as if this wasn’t a much bigger problem than having stubbed a toe. “I sure don’t see any reason to call off a marriage because of that.”

  “That isn’t the problem,” Cronin said. He made a fist. The knuckles I’d noticed the other day had scabbed over but still looked pretty bad.

  “Oh?”

  “The problem is that if she did sleep with O’Donlon, then he nailed her before I did.”

  “What a great way to put it,” Linda said.

  “He nailed me.”

  I said. “You mean that the night she spent with O’Donlon she was still—”

  his—a virgin.”

  “Ah.”

  “Now you see the problem. She was a virgin the night she went up to his place.” He turned to her and said, with genuine grief, “It’s nothing personal, Linda. It’s just I was raised to believe that a man should always marry a virgin.”

  “Maybe I should’ve lied to you.”

  “Yeah,” he said, sounding miserable again.

  “Maybe you should’ve.”

  I did the only thing I could think of. I took out the pint of Old Grand Dad from the bottom drawer, set three paper cups on the desk, and poured us each a hard jolt.

  Linda teared up drinking hers. Cronin coughed. I felt my sinuses drain. A drinker I’m not.

  “I guess I don’t know what you want me to do,” I said to Linda.

  “Talk to him.”

  “Cronin’s stubborn.”

  “He’s also stupid.”

  “Quit talking about me like I’m not here.”

  “I don’t want to put you on the spot, McCain, but who do you agree with, him or me?”

  “Thanks for not putting me on the spot.”

  “Well, somebody has to talk some sense into that thick head of his.”

  “I agree with you, Linda,” I said.

  “Thanks a lot,” Cronin said.

  “She was being honest with you, Cronin.

  She wanted to get your marriage off to a good start. And now you’re punishing her for it.”

  “What if he nailed her?”

  “Will you quit using that word?” she snapped.

  I said, “Do you love Jeff?”

  “Of course I do, McCain. You know that.

  I’m crazy about him.”

  “Do you love her?”

  “Yeah. The bitch.”

  “Oh, really nice,” she said.

  “You think we could try that again? Do you love her?”

  “Yeah. Pretty much I do.”

  “Then you should get married and forget all about this.”

  His scabbed knuckles came toward me. It looked as if he were slowing a punch in slow motion. “I just want to hit something.”

  “That wouldn’t do much good,” she said.

  “God, Cronin. Look at her. She’s a

  wonderful girl and she loves you!”

  “Yeah, well, people will know she’s not a virgin when we get married. I don’t have to tell you how the guys’ll be laughing about that for the next twenty years.”

  “I really don’t think I slept with him,”

  she said. “I really don’t.”

  “Well, there you go,” I said. “She’s really pretty sure she didn’t. And anyway, whether she did or not isn’t anybody else’s business anyway.”

  “Damn right,” she said. “You listen to him, Jeff. What he’s saying makes sense. It isn’t anybody else’s business.”

  “Yeah, but I’d know,” he said, thumping his chest. “In here. And if my folks ever hear, they won’t want me to marry her.”

  “You’re kidding,” I said.

  “Oh, no,” she said. “He’s not kidding. His parents
are just like that. His mother got me alone the other night and asked if I knew what to do on my wedding night. I mean, it was sweet and scary at the same time. If they hear that I’m only seventy-five percent sure I’m a virgin—”

  “The wedding’s off,” Cronin said. He looked ready to go crazy. Straitjacket time.

  And then he was on his feet and stomping across the small space of my office. Out the door.

  Down the steps.

  She put her head down and wept.

  Her shoulders shook. Her breath came in hot gasps.

  I wished I could hold my liquor. My dad and I are just too small to be good drinkers.

  I pulled a chair up next to her and started patting her head and back and shoulders. I wasn’t sure what else to do. She just kept sobbing. I started alternately rubbing and patting.

  And then she turned to me and put her wet face into my neck and said, “I’m not telling the truth, McCain.”

  “You’re not?”

  “I said I was seventy-five percent sure nothing happened? But I’m really only about fifty percent sure.”

  And took her sobbing up yet another notch.

  Fifty percent was a long way down from seventy-five percent on the absolutely sure scale. A long way. But I guessed it didn’t matter.

  “He loves you.”

  “I know.”

  “And he wants to marry you.”

  “You sure?”

  “I’m positive. Just look how miserable he is.”

  She lifted her head and looked at me.

  “I’m not sure I understand that one, McCain.”

  “If he didn’t want to marry you, he wouldn’t be miserable. Don’t you see?”

  “Yeah, I guess so.”

  “I’ll talk with him tomorrow.”

  “And say what?”

  “Tell him he’s in danger of losing you.”

  “What if he doesn’t care?”

  “He cares; believe me, he cares.”

  “It’s not fair. Women don’t care if men are virgins. And I’m probably a virgin anyway.”

  “Yeah, I know. Fifty percent.”

  “Maybe sixty, then. If that sounds

  better.”

  “I wouldn’t give him any more statistics, if I were you.”

  She threw her arms around me and held me tight. I liked her. And she smelled good to boot. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Sure.”

  “What if you found out your fianc@ee wasn’t a virgin?”

  I thought of Pamela. “I’d marry her in a minute.”

  “God, it’s just so unfair. My mom’s as bad as his. All I ever got growing up was “Nobody’ll want you if you’re not a virgin.” And even if Chip and I did do something, I only did it because I was drunk and mad at Jeff. Jeff was the one who broke up with me. He gave me my Eddie Fisher records back and everything.”

  Then I said, “He’s waiting outside in the car.”

  “How do you know? Maybe he left me here.”

  “He didn’t leave you. I can hear his car.

  He loves you.”

  “He hates me.”

  “Well, at the moment he hates you a little bit. But he loves you a lot more.”

  “You’re deep, McCain. You know that? People always say that about you, how deep you are.”

  “Well, I try, God knows. Being deep isn’t always easy.”

  I slipped from her arms to the door. He was sitting out in the station wagon that belonged to his father’s gas station.

  “He’s out there waiting.”

  “I love him so much, McCain.”

  “I know you do. And he loves you.”

  She was at the door. Hugging me. “I really appreciate your talking to us.”

  “No problem. I enjoyed it.”

  A chaste little kiss on the cheek and then she was hurrying down the steps to the car.

  I waved to them. Cronin didn’t wave back. He just backed up the wagon before she’d quite had time to close her door.

  I went inside and resumed my life’s work of being deep, which isn’t half as easy as you might think. Just ask Socrates.

  Just before five, the phone rang.

  “Hi, Sam. This is Miriam Travers.”

  “Hi, Miriam. How’s Bill?”

  “Oh, actually coming along a little better than the doctor thought he would. In so short a time, I mean.”

  “That’s great.”

  “The reason I’m calling, Sam, is to ask if you’ve seen Mary.”

  “Isn’t she working at Rexall?”

  “It’s her afternoon off.”

  “Oh.”

  “She said she was going to stop by your office and then come home. She said she had something important to tell you.”

  “Gee, no, I haven’t seen her. Of

  course, I haven’t been here all afternoon either.”

  “Well, if you do see her, please tell her I’ll hold supper for her.”

  “I sure will, Miriam. And that’s great news about Bill.”

  At the time, I didn’t think anything of the call. A lot of times, Mary got in her old DeSoto and drove to Cedar Rapids or Iowa City to shop. Being almost twenty-three, she didn’t feel any great need to tell her mother her plans.

  A harmless shopping trip.

  That was my first conjecture about her absence.

  But it would prove to be very wrong.

  Perfume. A glimpse of a candlelit dining room. A Jerry Vale Lp on the record player. Mrs. Goldman was up to something tonight.

  Her door was open so I peeked in. I wanted to ask her if she’d seen who’d dropped off a letter for me. An unstamped letter.

  She was looking mighty fine, Mrs.

  Goldman was, in a tan tailored suit, her dark hair swept up in a stunning Cyd Charisse hairdo.

  “Wow.”

  She laughed. “Thank you, McCain.”

  “In fact, double wow.”

  “My optometrist friend is coming for dinner tonight.”

  “He doesn’t stand a chance.”

  She smiled. “That’s what I’m hoping.”

  “So your date Saturday night went well?”

  “Very well. Except for a little guilt now and then. You know, as if I were betraying my husband by going out.”

  “You’ll get over that.”

  “I suppose. But I’ll never forget him.”

  The smile this time was sad, remembering her husband. She changed the subject. “So what’s up with you?”

  I remembered the letter. “You see who dropped this off on the front porch?”

  “Afraid not, McCain. I was downtown most of the afternoon.”

  “Oh. Well, I’ll let you get back

  to setting the stage.”

  “I made peach pie. I’ll save you a piece.”

  “Thanks.”

  Up in my apartment, I settled in with a beer and a cigarette. Early autumn dusk, the colors of the sky, the last birds of day filling the fiery trees with song and silence. Soon enough their winter trek south would begin. In the alley, a couple of kids were playing the last act of their cowboy movie for the day, a shootout in which one was the victor and the other got to ham up a slow death as he dropped to the ground. Far away you could see the lights of the football stadium. They were testing everything for the big game Friday night.

  I sat in the easy chair with a Four Freshmen album on the hi-fi. As much as I like rock-and-roll, I also appreciate the simple beauty of the human voice.

  I kept studying the envelope and the letter inside.

  Chevy ‘ee: (312) 945-3260

  That’s all it said.

  Who had left the letter for me? And why?

  Cliffie was convinced that Mike Chalmers had killed Susan to avenge his prison sentence. But if the ‘ee Chevy figured in the killing, it would tend to exonerate Chalmers. He didn’t own a ‘ee Chevy.

  I was just about to dial the 312 number when the phone rang.

  “Hi, Miriam,” I said.

 
; “There’s still no word from Mary. I’m getting worried.”

  “Sounds like a shopping trip to me.”

  “Oh, Lord, I hope so.”

  “Tell you what. I’ve got to go out for a while. I’ll look around at the places she usually goes.”

  “It’s just not like her to do this. Especially with her father in his condition.”

  I hadn’t thought of that. And when she said it, the first faint note of alarm sounded in my emergency system. It really .was out of character for Mary to do something like this. She was a dutiful daughter.

  “I’m sure it’s fine, Miriam. There’ll be some perfectly logical explanation.

  You’ll see.”

  “I just keep thinking maybe she’s been in an accident or something—”

  Then the words from her previous call came back to me. How Mary’d had something important to tell me. Something about Susan’s murder?

  “You just relax, Miriam. You’ll be seeing her very soon.”

  “Thanks, Sam. You’re such a good boy.”

  I smiled fondly. Miriam Travers had been telling me that most of my life.

  I tried the 312 number. Eighteen times I let it ring. No answer.

  End Of Volume I

  Wake Up Little Susie

  A Mystery

  by Ed Gorman

  Volume Ii of Two Volumes

  Pages i-Ii and 189-359

  Published by:

  Carroll and Graf Publishers, Inc.

  A division of

  Avalon Publishing Group

  19 West 21st Street

  New York, Ny 10010-6805.

  Further reproduction or distribution in other than a specialized

  format is prohibited.

  Produced in braille for the Library of Congress, National Library

  Service for the Blind and Physically Handicapped, by National Braille

  Press Inc., 2003.

  Copyright 1998 by Ed Gorman

  Wake Up Little Susie

  Part Ii (cont.)

  Eleven

  I stopped seven different places, looking for Mary. In the course of my travels, I played two games of pinball, bought a copy of the new Cavalier magazine with a Mickey Spillane story in it, caught up on some gossip with three or four old high school classmates, had an ice-cream cone at one of our favorite places, and walked around in a ladies’ dress shop feeling very self-conscious.